


the letters of your name

by curiositykilled



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: (Ish) - Freeform, Altaïr is bad with words, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bodyguard Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Deus Ex Machina, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Exes, M/M, Magic, Malik is bad at feelings, Past Relationship(s), Redemption, Slow Burn, dumbasses in love, really lovers to enemies to friends to lovers but w/e
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-28 10:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: A king and a castaway, they find each other in the end of their worlds.





	1. An Unwelcome Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended listening for this chapter: "The Stranger" by Lord Huron
> 
> incidentally, that's also the source of the title

Altaïr comes to Malik in the evening, when the sun stretches long and red across the sand. He’s snarling and straining, half-animal, a wild thing. Blood splatters his bare skin, runs in red rivulets down his arms. Some of it is his. Most is not.

It would be easy enough to pass him by, assume he’s only one of the many captives taken in this last battle. Their kingdom doesn’t deal in slaves, but something has to be done with the prisoners taken in war. Their allies have been divvying them up these last few days, with two of Malik’s advisors keeping a wary eye on the proceedings. Someone needs to do the division, and as Al Mualim’s forces took the brunt of the charge, it is fair that he takes the first pick of the spoils – but Malik trusts the man as far as a blind snake can see. 

“The old man said this one was for you, my lord,” Bayek says.

He wears a frown like it has been etched into his skin the way sculptors carve furrowed brows on their great heroes. Malik waits in case there is more to come, but Bayek says nothing, and Malik does not press. He will give his counsel in time, when he has decided on it. Bayek has never hurried in any direction, but his strides, when he takes them, do not falter. For now, Malik turns to the barbarian chained before him.

He is bound with sturdy ropes and a chain from neck to wrists. Even on his knees before a king, he strains to escape. There are scars across his entire body, old arrow wounds and newer marks from a cleaving blade. Some injuries are too young to have scarred and still score his skin in bright red. A particularly deep wound cuts through the center of his low belly, held together by fresh stitches.

A joke, Malik thinks. Or a challenge. The old man might think it entertaining to send a berserker to his one-armed ally, or he might think it a convenient way of ridding himself of a competitor. If a slave slipped loose and killed the king, how could Al Mualim be blamed? It was simply fate, the will of the gods.

The captive looks up.

If it is a joke, it is a cruel one.

It’s been ten summers since he met Altaïr, since that languid season of long limbs tangled and pealing laughter ringing out. Halcyon, ephemeral – those days had been the last long hours of youth and they seem now distant, smudged with age.

They were not the last time he saw Altaïr.

“Did Al Mualim’s generosity include any message?” Malik asks.

His voice comes out surprisingly even, though he can’t pull his gaze away. For his part, Altaïr seems equally stunned. He’s gone still suddenly, struggling replaced with taut immobility, and his eyes watch Malik, unblinking.

“He said he thought you might make use of him as a bodyguard,” Bayek says, “since Abdul fell in battle.”

So, not a challenge but an assassination. Malik is almost disappointed. He thought more of the conniving old man’s cunning. Certainly a game may be won by upsetting the board, but that hardly takes any skill. He had expected better.

Still, the knowledge eases some of his rictus fury. Altaïr was not likely sent for personal causes but for the impersonal commerce of death. The easy solution would be to send him back to Al Mualim under cover of darkness, as if he had escaped and not been rejected outright. Easier still would just be to kill him and blame it on him being unruly or threatening a guard. Though Bayek added no commentary, his tone made clear his inclination towards the latter – or perhaps that is Malik building his own fantasy out of intonation. He is hardly an unbiased judge in this matter.

“A bodyguard,” Malik echoes, gaze steady on Altaïr. “Then he will need bathed and clothed. See to it.”

If the guards holding Altaïr are surprised, they are wise enough not to show it. They drag Altaïr to his feet and lead him away, stumbling as if still half-stunned. Bayek, on the other hand, turns to Malik with arms crossed.

“My lord,” he says.

There’s no question in it, but Malik has fought beside the general for enough years to recognize the layers underpinning that simple statement. Bayek will not ask them outright, too respectful of their kingdom’s laws and order, but he is too faithful, too effective, an advisor to leave in the dark for long.

“It will be hard for him to stick a dagger in my back if he is to walk before me everywhere,” Malik says.

“Yet easy enough to stab you in the back if he is the one watching it,” Bayek rejoins.

Malik sighs. He has no good rebuttal when he was thinking the very same only minutes ago. He’s struck by a sudden weariness that seems fit to hollow out his very bones, and his arm aches where the straps of the prosthesis chafe against his skin. It has been too long a day, too long a year. His body yearns for rest.

“Then let us hope he strikes here in the wastes rather than waiting till his regicide finds better sponsors at court,” he says.

Bayek’s lips purse, not quite appeased. His discontent doesn’t bother Malik; he wouldn’t trust Bayek if he were so easily swayed. When he is ready, Bayek will tell Malik what he deems fit. For now, he keeps his own counsel. Malik is already turning away to the inside of his tent when Bayek speaks again.

“Did he seem familiar to you, my lord?”

Falling still, Malik is quiet a moment. Without quite meaning to, his right hand comes up to grip his left arm, just above the scar tissue.

“In passing, perhaps,” he says. “But he is no man I know.”

That much is true, at least. The Altaïr he last met was not a man he knew, not anymore, and it has been a year even since then. Whatever he might have known about the man, whatever he thought a truth, it is all surely gone now like so many grains of sand in an ever-shifting dune. The man he saw today was a stranger.

After that, he is left in peace to set about the labor of rest. His djellaba is shed first and then the heavy grey tabard underneath until he can unbutton the top of his under tunic and let the translucent linen crumple about his waist. At last, then, he can begin tugging loose the heavy leather straps securing the wooden arm to what remains of his flesh and bone.

A page could be brought in to help, to ease the strain of twisting around to reach each buckle and scrabble at them with his fingertips, but Malik has always avoided such attention. Too many think him vulnerable, weak, already. He has no wish to be seen here, in this private surrendering. He can make it work on his own, even if it is less convenient or comfortable. Better than weakness. Better than pity.

The prosthesis is laid on a red cushion, as if it is a respected guest rather than a tool. It takes a moment to unwind the bandages from around his amputation, and then those are dropped on the table to be tended later. The rest of his clothing is shucked off, left in a heap on the sand. He'll regret it in the morning, or some ambitious page will pass through earlier than he can and tend to all of it.

He settles into his bed with a groan, stretching out among the pillows. Reaching his arm overhead, he can feel the whole of his side crackle, and tilting his head to the side earns a sharp pop. He sinks down into the pillows in relief and closes his eyes to the darkened tent. Sleep comes to him on owls' wings, silent and cloaking. He dreams of a blinding light.

Morning comes in honey-gold rays rising up over the horizon and spreading over the camp already quick with life. Malik rises with the dawn to find his clothing tended in the night. It still seems strange, even now, to be served with such attention. As a prince, he was never minded so closely. Now, though, it seems everyone wants to find a way to win their king's favor. Even if it means picking up his dirty clothes.

A clean set of robes lays over the chair, and after he's attached the prosthesis, he sets to pulling on his under layers and robes. He's fastening the sash about his waist when the bell rings outside his tent. Giving it a firm tug, he calls for the intruder to enter.

Behind him, the tent flap rustles as it's pushed up to permit the newcomers.

"My lord, the new guard."

He shrugs on the black djellaba and neatens it before straightening and turning around.

Altaïr stands between two of his guards, though he hardly looks himself. He's dressed like an initiate with leather faulds falling to just above his knees and his arms bare except for leather vambraces. A simple cuirass finishes the set. It's all so much less than what Malik's used to, so thinned down from his usual robes and armor. Even among Malik's senior guard he looks strangely Spartan. Initiates aren't granted the privilege of wearing the king's emblem, and their vambraces are only leather, not the gleaming bronze of the soldiers. He hasn't been granted a weapon yet, either. An initiate's proof of their dedication, of their loyalty to their king, isn't in their willingness to kill or fight for glory but to protect their king even if the only thing they can use to block a weapon's path is their own body.

Malik concludes his examination by leveling his gaze on Altaïr's. The assassin's eyes are cool today, unreadable. He seems to have decided to wait this challenge out, rather than howling his disapproval. A change, then, from the Altaïr Malik remembers. Perhaps his words last night were truer than Malik realized.

"Take him to the other initiates," Malik says. "Have him join in their tasks."

"Initiates? I am a master—"

Or not.

“Silence.”

A swift quick to the back of his knees sends Altaïr staggering a step forward, but he doesn’t crumple. Of course not. The guards wait till they receive a slight nod before seizing Altaïr’s shoulders and forcing him down. They only succeed with effort: Altaïr is no docile servant, and he bucks their grip as best he can. Still, there are two of them, and he is injured. When he will not go down willingly, he is brought down with force.

“Would you like him taken to the stocks, my lord? Or lashed?” a guard asks.

It’s an idea. Humiliate Altaïr and break him down. But a martyr needs suffering, and Malik has no desire to grant Altaïr sainthood.

“No. Have him join the initiates tearing down the camp,” he says.

“As you will, my lord.”

Despite being spared stock or whip, Altaïr seems no more pleased with this arrangement. He throws off the guards’ hands and steps neatly out of their grasp when he’s finally permitted to stand, as if he was only entertaining their thought of entrapment. Still, he goes when they direct him out of the tent, even if it is with one last seething glare at Malik.

A page enters not long after, too quickly for Malik to have digested half his thoughts but not so soon as to make Malik think he was eavesdropping. Anyway, this boy is an assiduous one, the type who rises early without any prompting and sets to work on tasks that haven’t been explicitly assigned. No doubt it was simply time to come according to his own internal schedule.

Wearing full armor to meet with an ally would be either insult or a challenge, but this is still a battlefield and that affords Malik some flexibility. Vambraces and his cuirass are his compromise.

He doesn’t fear Al Mualim – won’t permit the old man such dominion over him – but he is wary. A ruler’s master is their people, yet Al Mualim’s people would gleefully starve themselves if it was his whim. They worship him with a fervor more like madness than faith. From what Malik has heard, too, the old man keeps his own counsel and has no advisors but simply makes proclamations which his people leap to obey, no matter how strange or suspect.

Some say he communes with the gods; others, that he is a mage. Malik has never put stock in either divinity nor magic; though it once ran through these lands like great veins or tributaries, it has withered and faded in the course of the ages. Now, it remains in only vestigial traces. Malik’s own mother had fae blood in her, and the closest she ever came to spell-weaving was in the bedtime stories that would lure Kadar and him to sleep. Even his own capital Tajalsef, crafted by the great mage-kings of yesteryear, is only a city now. What magic is left is only echoes, the dreams of a long-sleeping age.

Still, Al Mualim brings him closer to questioning that than any other. Wisdom does not explain his prescience nor inventiveness. The chicanery of his mind is ever uncanny, even when it benefits Malik. He does not trust the man, nor a single wraith from his white-robed Order.

It is not a long walk to the other camp, and Malik uses it to speak with Bayek and Hamza, one of his other generals, about their next steps. The war is won, inasmuch as such a thing is possible, and the whole of the army must now begin the long march home. There will be celebrations and mourning, funerals and promotions, when they reach the capital city. For now, though, their work is much more mundane: there are tents to be taken down and supplies to be packed and a hundred thousand soldiers to be organized. The road home is paved with a thousand tiny decisions, like a cloud made of biting gnats.

Their nuisance stings enough to almost make Malik grateful when they reach Al Mualim’s tent. There is no mistaking it: where his soldiers cluster tight in single room canvas tents, his own sprawls sumptuous and burgundy over the peak of a rise in the sand. From the outside, three large chambers are apparent, and Malik has seen how curtains further divide the interior like some labyrinthine palace among the dunes. A hooded guard, made featureless by its shadow, permits Malik, and his generals are bid to wait outside until his reemergence.

The tent’s thick fabric blocks out the heat of the desert sun and turns the interior purple-grey. Inside, Malik waits for his eyes to adjust. Even when they have, the dark of the tent does not reveal Al Mualim. Malik’s lips twist in irritation. Typical.

After a moment, the curtain in the back of the chamber parts and a wizened figure in black enters. His back seems bowed by the weight of his robes, grey beard trailing halfway to his navel. The smile he offers is small and soft, nearly grandfatherly.

“Malik, welcome,” he greets. “Please, stand on no ceremony. What is mine is ever also my friends’.”

He gestures to the floor pillows arrayed about the ornamental rug on the sand, and reluctantly, Malik obliges. He’s always hated this arrangement. Reclining among pillows with tea and finger foods is meant for close friends, lovers, family. Not for serpents with lying smiles and poison words. It’s a kind of violation, this assumption of intimacy.

“You send interesting gifts, Rashid,” Malik remarks instead.

“I try to be useful to my friends,” Al Mualim replies mildly.

“And your enemies?” Malik asks.

“Lethal,” Al Mualim answers with a flash of a viper’s smile. He relaxes back into his cushions, amused. “But come now, you aren’t here for idle chatter.”

Malik lets it go. Al Mualim ever speaks in riddles and expecting a clear answer from him is as foolish as expecting a scorpion not to sting. Even now, his answer is as vague and useless as a mirage; to help friends and hurt enemies is the least that every ruler desires. Besides, there is still no saying whether Malik is friend or foe here, whether Al Mualim means it to be a chance at retribution or a death sentence.

“We leave at first light in three days,” Malik says now. “A contingent will be left at Dubraskal to secure the border and the rest will continue north to Tajalsef. A second contingent will continue go to Samrath, as agreed.”

Al Mualim nods, the information no novelty. They have shared as much information as is proper to share, and their plans have been sketched out for some time now. This meeting is only to finalize them, to ensure their cooperation is handled as smoothly as possible. It is easier to circumvent the potential for stepping on toes when they can speak like this, with less concern for propriety and politics.

“Dai Rauf and his men will join with your company to remain in Samrath until such time as the new government is stable,” Al Mualim says. “The rest of the Order leaves at dusk tonight.”

That, at least, is a pleasant surprise. It’s been some time, but Malik still remembers Rauf from his summer in Masyaf. A kindly man, friendlier and happier than most his stone-faced Brothers, he had some five years’ seniority over Malik but had never been inclined to use that to his advantage. While he sidestepped most of their trio’s misadventures, it had ever been with a smile and a laugh.

“How many men?” Malik asks.

“A score, last I heard.”

It’s a matter of some irritation that the Order maintains only the loosest semblance of organization. Despite the strict hierarchy of masters and novices and dais, the number of Assassins under each commander is ever-changing and dependent upon individual Brothers’ effort and ability to network and build alliances. From a defensive standpoint, it makes sense to keep your exact numbers a constant surprise for any would-be attackers, but from an organizational standpoint, Malik has found nothing more effective at causing unnecessary headaches.

He’d rankle at the size of the party, at how few Al Mualim offers when Malik himself is leaving behind two hundred and fifty, but he knows better. The role Al Mualim’s Order plays is far different than an army. It’s quiet work, better suited to individuals and small parties than a whole company. He has no doubt that one master assassin could hold an entire city ransom.

“Very well,” Malik says. “Rauf may report to me whenever he is free to, and arrangements will be made for his men to join up.”

Al Mualim inclines his head.

“Then it is settled.”

He rises, and Malik with him.

“Safety and peace,” Al Mualim says with a slight nod of farewell.

“And with you,” Malik echoes.

That is all the ceremony accorded to their parting, and Malik steps out of the tent to find the sun shining down in nearly the same position as when he entered Al Mualim’s shadowed hollow. Bayek and Hamza straighten at the sight of him, and he flicks his hand in a gesture for them to come along. There’s no sense dawdling here any longer. The white-robed guard watches them, silent.

“We’ll be joined by twenty of Al Mualim’s assassins,” Malik tells the generals when they’ve passed some distance from the burgundy tent. “They should arrive before dusk, and the leader is to come to me when they have.”

“And the rest of Al Mualim’s men?” Hamza asks.

“Leaving at dusk,” Malik answers.

At his side, Hamza grunts in displeasure but does not speak his disapproval. Where Bayek keeps his judgment quiet until it’s thoroughly decided, Hamza has ever made his thoughts clear through actions as much as words. Now, Malik needn’t even glance at him to know the surly frown he wears.

“The twenty – how far will they be traveling with us?” Bayek asks.

“To Samrath, to be stationed with our contingent there until the new government is stabilized,” Malik answers.

Bayek answers with only a nod. If he is uneasy about having a stranger’s men among their ranks, Malik sees little reason to dissuade him; to have Assassins among them is to court danger and sure to bring some measure of unrest to their companies, whether intended or not. Better to have Bayek more alert than necessary than to falsely reassure him.

Reaching the camp, Hamza departs to attend to his duties while Bayek and Malik continue on together. The camp is abuzz with activity, soldiers pulling down tents and tending wounds and minding horses. Already some are at work preparing the midday meal, sweat dripping from them as they lean over the great kettles braced above cook fires.

“Speaking of Assassins,” Bayek remarks as they near the west end of the camp, “the newest initiate is…ill-suited to his work.”

Malik raises an eyebrow and follows Bayek’s pointed gaze. The initiates are easy to spot, a bustling cluster of brown leather and sweating arms. In their group, Altaïr stands out because he stands still. Malik frowns and watches.

While the rest of the initiates hurry to follow their commander’s orders and tear down tents and neatly stow their poles and canvas and ropes, Altaïr stands at the edge of the area unmoving. None of the others approach him, though Malik can’t guess whether that’s because they’ve tried reprimanding him and gotten nowhere or if they can sense his immovable nature all on their own.

“Do you have any additional instructions for dealing with him, my lord?” Bayek asks.

“Leave it for now,” Malik says. “Have him report to me when his work is done – when _he_ has done his work, not when dark has fallen or the others finished.”

For a moment, Bayek is quiet and Malik can feel his appraising look on the side of his face. Then, in his periphery, Bayek gives a firm nod.

“As you will, my lord,” he affirms.

They continue on, Bayek parting to speak with his own officers and Malik turning back the way they’d come. He still has work to be done that has little to do with Al Mualim or his white-robed nuisances.

Within the shade of his own tent, he settles into the low lap desk and sets to work. Correspondence is more limited here in the wastes, and much of the kingdom’s dealings have been handled by his councilors in his absence. Still, there are matters that require a king’s input even when he is in a battlefield. They form a tidy stack of parchment on the right-hand corner of his desk, within easy reach.

Much of it requires only his signature, approval granted by his name and seal. Far from this war, it has been an easy year for the kingdom, with a bountiful harvest and gentle spring, and there has been little call for deviance from standard practice in terms of bread distribution or tax collection.

Most news comes from the hand of Abbas. He’d been an Assassin once, too, though his skills lay not in combat but in politics. A few years Malik’s senior, he’d come to Tajalsef at twenty-three with a letter from Al Mualim himself. The letter had explained that Abbas had found he had little desire to remain in the Order but that he had always been a dedicated student and loyal hand. His father had been something of a hero to the Brotherhood, a member of Al Mualim’s close circle, and in respect to that legacy, Al Mualim had sought to find a suitable place for Abbas.

At the time, Malik’s father had been wary, but after a look at the young man before him, dressed in his only set of robes and carrying all his possessions in a small satchel that sagged half-empty over his shoulder, he had relented. Even Malik’s mother hadn’t been able to keep from giving in to maternal concern about whether Abbas was settling in well enough, and Kadar had been enamored purely by his association with the Assassins. Only Malik had been unmoved, and that had been due to Altaïr. At the time, their relationship still held warmth, still held the tender promise of some future. When mention of Altaïr brought out an unwonted wrath in Abbas, Malik had reacted defensively and quickly spoiled the hope of friendship between them.

Over the years, that incident has faded in prominence, and they’ve found a strong working relationship. Abbas is no prodigy, but his steadiness and work ethic have allowed him to find a seat among Malik’s advisors. Though some kind of residual skepticism lingers, Malik mostly brushes that aside as the vestiges of their youth. Now, he reads Abbas’ letters in his own voice and feels some measure of fondness towards the man’s plain language and thorough notes. These letters are answered quickly and bound together to be sent by the same courier.

Interspersed in these are more enjoyable letters. The Queen in the West sends her regards, a genial letter littered with more family anecdotes than state matters. It’s been some years since Malik last saw her, but he can picture her shrewd eyes and bold laugh as easily as if it were yesterday. Rumors and strange stories surround the Queen and her family, whispers of gods and curses and cults. Malik has never put much stock in them, though he can understand where they come from: the Queen and her children walk with the kind of swagger best fitting heroes of old, and the feats accorded to them are nothing short of legendary. Still, he’s known their family since he was a child himself, has seen them trip and laugh and on occasion, bleed. Remarkable people? Certainly. But there is nothing godly there.

His reply to her takes longer than the others, though he is less loquacious than she. There are few humorous stories to be brought from the battlefield.

When he is done, he turns back to the remaining letters. These demand more attention. The councilors are reviewing a case where a man was tried and committed for murder by negligence some years ago. Distracted in the market place, he didn’t mind his horse and it trampled a boy on the threshold of adulthood. Now that his execution nears, he and his family ask for leniency, saying it was an accident caused by youth’s brashness. That one Malik sets down for a moment and leans back from his desk to consider.

Before he has even approached a decision, the bell outside his tent rings. A page ducks their head in through the door flap.

“My lord, a Dai Rauf from Al Mualim,” they announce.

“Let him in,” Malik says, flicking his hand in a ‘come in’ gesture.

He neatens the letters, the request for pardon shuffled in among the rest of the unread correspondence. He’ll decide on it later.

Rauf enters the tent with his hood folded against his back and immediately bends in a polite bow.

“Safety and peace, my lord,” he greets.

“Unto you as well, Rauf,” Malik answers, standing and crossing the small space.

He offers out his hand, and a smile breaks over Rauf’s somber expression as he clasps the proffered arm. It’s a far more suitable expression, and Malik relaxes a little with its familiarity. Releasing Rauf, he turns and gestures for him to take a seat among the floor pillows laid out over the rug. It’s not nearly so opulent as Al Mualim’s many-roomed palace, but it offers a quiet place of repose. With Rauf, unlike Rashid, it is a comfort to settle in among the pillows in the shade.

“It has been far too long since last I saw you,” Rauf remarks. “You’ve grown from a boy into a man – a king, now.”

“Nearly ten years, isn’t it?” Malik asks.

Rauf pulls a face, as if the years seem impossibly long. He nods.

“It must be,” he says. A smile tugs on the corners of his lips, and he gives a little shake of his head. “You were all just old enough to cause more trouble than you could handle, and I just old enough to avoid it.”

Canting his head, Malik can’t help but raise an eyebrow, dry.

“I recall you being involved in that trouble more than once,” he says.

Rauf laughs, a broad grin brightening his brown eyes. Pleased, Malik allows himself a smaller smile. It is comforting to speak of those long-gone days like this, with someone who shares their memory. Anymore, Kadar’s name is only uttered in conjunction with tragedy at court, and there is no one in the palace who shared that summer with Malik so many lifetimes ago. This reminiscence is soothing, like a compress for an ache he didn’t know was there.

“Well, perhaps I was not so old,” Rauf compromises.

His smile lingers, and for the first time in a long while, Malik feels easy. He trusts his men and has friends among the nobles of his own age – but ever since he was crowned, things have changed. His agemates no longer look at him as Malik but as their king. Even when they are in private quarters, away from the watchful eyes of the courtiers, there’s still a guardedness to their words and actions. Gone now are the carefree days of play and confidence.

In all his years, for all his wisdom, Malik’s father never told him how lonely the throne was.

“You and your men are welcome to find space within our ranks,” Malik says, turning to the matter at hand. "If there are any supplies you need, an optio will assist you. Otherwise, we will be leaving in three days' time."

Rauf takes in the information with a nod.

"My men should be provisioned for the journey, but I will be sure to meet with this officer when we are done here," he says. "Better safe than sorry."

He quirks his lips up in a little smile, and Malik has a feeling that the decision is as much to have that relationship prepared in case Rauf or his men should need something as it is to appease their hosts and not seem supercilious.

"My door will be open to you, as well," Malik assures.

"A privilege I will not take lightly," Rauf answers.

There's little else Malik need discuss; Rauf will find his men's positions as instructed by that same officer, and he has little doubt they will filter in among the army easily enough. Al Mualim's Order has ever been skilled at subtlety, and this cooperation, in its own way, is a kind of duplicity. The Assassins won't want to make a fuss, and their methods are likely sly enough that Malik's men won't even realize they're being won over.

"Is there anything now I can do for you?" Malik asks.

For a moment, it seems Rauf will say no and the meeting will adjourn, turning Malik back to his unwelcome letters and work. He hesitates, though, quick brown eyes scanning over Malik with a shrewdness Malik isn't used to seeing from him.

"I noticed that my company are not the only Assassins among your men," he finally says carefully.

Malik stills, weighing what words to say. He doesn't know the circumstances of Altaïr's dismissal, whether his casting out was public or a private rebuke. He doesn't even know if it's true at all or if it's all a great scam, a far more malicious deception than Rauf's men's assimilation.

"He was sent among the prisoners," Malik says.

Rauf's eyebrows pinch inwards, and his gaze falls at last from Malik's face to rest on his hands, resting loosely over his lap.

"Ah," he says, softly. "I had wondered."

Watching him, Malik debates whether it's worth pressing for more. Rauf is a good man, but he is an Assassin. Even if he bears Malik no ill ill, his loyalty to Al Mualim is an undeniable thing. If this is some greater machination, then Rauf will tell him only what he is supposed to say and nothing of true worth.

Before he has settled on a choice, Rauf looks up with a small smile that doesn't even near his eyes.

"Well, perhaps he will learn some worthy lesson here," he says.

Malik can't imagine what lesson Altaïr might be willing to learn from this experience. The man has long made it clear that the only lessons for him are those he imparts on his fawning audience. The idea of Altaïr actually being humbled or changed by his time among Malik's army seems as preposterous as Al Mualim shedding his robes and dancing a jig atop the parapets of Masyaf.

"Thank you for the welcome, Malik," Rauf says, rising. Malik stands as well. "I look forward to this journey together."

They part ways, and Malik is left alone in the shadow of his tent, his stomach uneasy with new misgivings and questions. He can't quite make out what Rauf's reaction to Altaïr's coming here was supposed to mean, and he spends far too long gazing at the still-swaying tent flap, trying to make sense of it all.

No answer comes to him in the quiet solitude, and with a sigh, he turns back to his work. The question of the man begging pardon is put aside until some other time when he can approach it with a clearer mind.

After another hour of struggling to bend his mind away from the enigma of Al Mualim’s plans and finding it springy as a fresh sapling, he relents and rises from his table to find some better use of his time and energy. In the evening, perhaps, when his mind has worn itself out with its own paranoia, he will be better able to focus on the concerns of state. For now, he seeks out Bayek.

Finding him watching a quartet of officers practice hand-to-hand is as little a surprise as it clearly is for him to see Malik stalking across the sand with an undoubtedly irate expression. A rare smile, half-formed, curves up one corner of his mouth.

“You look like you need a partner, general,” Malik greets.

“Gladly, sire,” Bayek answers.

Malik sheds his outer two layers, draping them together in the sand, and meets Bayek some paces away from them. They fall into familiar stances, and in moments, they find a rhythm of blocks and blows. Sparring isn’t about winning, and neither fights as they would in true danger, but their familiarity and skill permits a somewhat looser standard than the soldiers would be held to: when Malik sees an opportunity to kick out and take Bayek’s legs out from under him, he does, and they wind up grappling in the sand. His prosthetic lacks the dexterity and motion of his right arm, but he still has the strength to bracket it around Bayek’s throat and hold his hands still with his right.

“I yield!” Bayek groans, and Malik releases him with a laugh.

Rolling to his feet and offering Bayek a hand, he feels his chest lighten. Bayek takes his hand and heaves himself to his feet. They begin again.

Scuffling in the sand, trying to pinpoint momentary weaknesses before Bayek finds his, clears Malik’s mind of its earlier clouds. In this moment, there is no room in his mind for anything but his next step, counter, strike. By the time they end, his shirts are soaked through with sweat and sand, and his heart and mind feel washed clean. Crouching, he sets to picking up his outer robes and shaking them free of sand. Even safely distanced from their sparring, the robes still feel victim to sand carried on the desert wind and the gentle shifting of the dunes.

The back of his neck prickles. Though the midday sun beats down on his shoulders, a chill skitters over his skin. Someone is watching.

He finishes shaking out his robes and shrugs them on, letting his gaze rove idly over the sand. Bayek speaks to his officers, reminding them of corrections to their form and approach. Closer to the tents, a horse tosses its head and turns to nip at a neighbor. And ­– there.

He stands just under the shade of a tent, arms crossed and brow furrowed into a scowl. Even in the purple-grey shadow, Altaïr’s eyes seem a piercing gold. For an instant, their gazes hold. Then, stutteringly, Altaïr’s gaze drops from Malik’s, then to the sand before his feet. At last, he turns and walks back toward the camp, disappearing around the corner of a tent. Malik watches him go.

“An audience?” Bayek asks at Malik’s shoulder.

Malik straightens his djellaba with a sharp jerk.

“Reconnaissance, I imagine,” he says.

Were it Hamza instead of Bayek at his side, Malik can imagine too readily what the general would say: why keep a man who arouses such suspicion? Why keep such a threat close to the heart of their army? Why not be done with it? Kill him or desert him, either way would ease the risk Malik runs by allowing him to remain.

The very same questions linger in Malik’s mind, yet he shies away from addressing them too directly. Cowardice is an ugly color on a king, and Malik does not often balk at his own thoughts. This time is different, though. There’s knowledge there, some understanding, that is just out of reach. He’s never been one for superstitions, but there are some things the soul knows before the mind can. To force this prematurely into the light, he thinks, would leave him with a hollow truth, halved by his own impatience.

He waits.

Lunch is taken with the upper officers, and the rest of the day is passed with the tasks of administration. The logistics of moving a few thousand men through the barren labyrinth of the desert are no simple matter, and he consults with both his generals and military advisors as they debate the best route and best order of contingents deployed.

Later yet, when the first shadows of evening are stretching long and bruised across the sand, there is overseeing the assembled troops, and then the issue of a nobleman's son whose still-bleeding wounds make his return to the capital unlikely. No medic himself, Malik can only listen to the grave-faced physician and order that the boy be made comfortable in these last days.

By the time he returns to his own tent, Malik is weary not from physical exertion but from the hourly attrition of his mental and emotional stores. The young noble, barely old enough to wield a sword, let alone serve in the infantry, took more out of him than he expected. Even now, an hour since leaving the medics' tent, Malik cannot quite erase his anguished face from his mind. Standing alone in the quiet of his tent, he closes his eyes and forces himself to draw in deep breaths.

Such needless violence. Such merciless death. The boy should have been made to stay home, to wait till he was older to fight – but for what purpose? Malik knows, at that age, nothing could have stopped him from pushing past wisdom and pleas to fight as he thought right. Kadar had been nearly the same age when he insisted on accompanying Malik to Masyaf. And even if the boy had listened, what then? Was it really so much better to wait to die a few years later? What milestones marked when death was tolerable? Would there ever come a day when Malik could look a dying man in the eye and not feel that sharp pang of guilt, that bone-scraping sorrow?

He releases a breath, shuddering, and digs his fingers into his temples. There's no use fixating on it now. Dropping his hand, he trudges toward the dinner set out under linen covers on his table. The grapes and bread are the same as ever, but they seem strangely tasteless in his mouth.

By the time dark has freshly fallen, Malik sets to pulling off his djelleba and cloak to lay them over the trunk at the foot of his bed. Wincing, he tilts his head to the side in an effort to stretch his neck and rolls it down toward his chest. His muscles are weary with the long day, the strain of sitting bent over his desk as taxing as the time spent with the medics and the earlier discussions with Al Mualim and Rauf.

Now, as his day draws down to a close, his thoughts circle back toward that earlier conundrum. He has no better answer now than he did hours past, and his fingers dig into the meat of his neck muscles as he scowls down at the sand. Indecision has never been his hallmark, and he loathes the idea that Altaïr could wield such power as to draw it out of him now. Even in the face of Al Mualim's meddling, Malik has rarely hesitated for long. It makes him weak, provides too many openings through which a surer opponent might find a gap.

Behind him, fabric rustles. He straightens, stilling. Quiet boot steps in the sand approach until the nearer curtain is brushed aside. Malik turns slightly to glance over his shoulder.

Altaïr stands loose-handed at the entrance to this inner chamber. Of course he didn't announce himself or ask leave for entry.

"You've finally finished your tasks, then," Malik greets.

The answer he receives is a derisive scoffing noise, and Malik's mood sours further. He reaches up to start unbuckling the prosthetics straps over his shoulder and chest. His fingers dig in under the leather, tugging them free with quick, sharp tugs.

"They are the tasks of novices," Altaïr says. "I was not sent here to be an errand boy."

“Why Al Mualim sent you here is of little concern to me,” Malik says. “You were brought as a prisoner, to be done with as I will.”

He affects more nonchalance than he truly feels. A tangled knot, net of hurt and anger, binds his ribs to his spine like a snare he cannot escape. The helplessness sets the first twinges of rage to aching in his chest.

"Malik," Altaïr starts.

"You do not have the right," Malik interjects, freeing the last strap from its buckle and pulling loose the prosthesis.

"Brother," Altaïr starts again, exasperated.

Malik turns. The heel of his palm strikes Altaïr hard in the chest and he pushes him back one stride, two, until his back hits the fabric of the tent. Malik's fist clenches white around the collar of Altaïr's tunic.

"You are not my brother," he snarls. "You _killed_ my brother."

They stand there in tremulous stillness for a moment before Malik realizes Altaïr has let himself be pushed back, has not fought at all against Malik's rage. He turns away sharply, closing his fist on empty air. It trembles with the force.

"Go," he says, his back turned. "Sleep outside. I do not wish to see you."

No sound comes from behind him, but when he looks, Altaïr is gone and the tent fabric unmoved. He swallows, staring at the plain grey fabric. Finger by finger, he forces his hand to unfold.

His shoulders shake with the anger, and with something else besides. Clenching his jaw tight, he yanks off the prosthesis and tosses it down onto the cushion. He doesn’t look at it as he pulls off his undershirt and boots and casts them aside.

It is long after he’s lain down that sleep comes to him, faltering and unsteady. He dreams of hands, of blood dripping red and viscous from calloused fingers. He reaches out, and Kadar slips further from his fingertips.


	2. Of Distant Peaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: "The Mute" by Radical Face

The next three days pass in the soft-blurred rush of preparation. Malik wakes that first morning stiff and sore and ready to take it out on Altaïr only to find the man has vanished. He’s nowhere within or near the tent, and it’s only once Malik has dressed and emerged that he finds Altaïr has joined the other initiates. The information leaves him strangely unsettled, like he’d been stepping out to cross a river only to have the familiar flagstone yanked from under his foot.

After that, he hardly sees Altaïr. He catches glimpses, in passing, when their paths happen to cross or, once, when Altaïr seemed to be loitering by Malik’s tent. At the sight of Malik, though, he’d startled and set off with a purposeful stride, leaving Malik to stare after his receding figure in confusion.

Altaïr never again enters his tent, and Malik can't quite decide what to make of it. He should be relieved, he thinks. The less Altaïr is around him, the less he has to see of the Assassin, the less he'll be reminded of their shared past. The less he'll be haunted by the ghosts trailing red-tinged in Altaïr's wake.

He’s not. He's disgruntled, perhaps by the ease with which Altaïr gave up. He's not used to him being so acquiescent. He hadn't expected Altaïr to leave so readily that first night, and he certainly hadn't expected that to be the start of some kind of studious avoidance. Part of him almost resents Altaïr for leaving so quickly; bitterness rises up in him at how typical it is for Altaïr to walk away, at how easily abandonment comes to him. Malik shunts that far from his mind. He refuses to give Altaïr the privilege of importance.

It's the morning they are to leave when Malik finally receives some sort of idea of Altaïr's new routine. It comes from an unexpected source.

"Is your new guard meant to be sleeping at your door?" Hamza asks.

The last of the tents have been dismantled, and the army is nearly ready to march out. Malik's in the middle of adjusting his horse's bridle when Hamza asks. He pauses, frowning, and straightens to look at Hamza over his horse's back. The general catches his eye and shrugs before turning back to give his saddle's girth a firm tug.

"If he is, it is your business of course," Hamza says, "but there's room with the other initiates if he's being a nuisance."

Turning back to his horse, Malik frowns and smooths over the buckle on its throatlatch. The black gelding seems utterly unconcerned with this mystery; it's settled its weight with one hoof cocked and its long tail occasionally swishing at a stray fly.

"No, there's no need," he says.

He isn't sure what else to say. Technically, he had ordered Altaïr to sleep outside – he just hadn't expected him to follow through, nor for it to become a long-term arrangement. Altaïr has to be waking with the dawn for Malik not to catch sight of him when he leaves in the morning. The knowledge adds a further notch of confusion in his disgruntlement.

"Is he with the other initiates now?" he asks.

"I believe so," Hamza says offhandedly. "I can check, if you will."

"No, that's fine," Malik says.

Releasing the bridle, he sets to smoothing the horse's blanket and bags. Most supplies are carried by the pack animals and camp followers at the rear of the army, but there are some things that don't belong in any but the king's possession. His saber hangs from the horse's shoulder, round shield on the opposite side. In a fight, he won't have time to buckle the shield to his prosthesis and grab his blade; his safest bet will be to hold tight to the shield and use it as a weapon if he's in danger of it. Still, it's poor form to lend his sword to any other. It is as much a mark of his kingship as his crown: forged by one of the first kings of Tajalsef, back when dragons still roosted in the mountain and flew to war at the king’s side, it is irreplaceable, invaluable. Even if it is only ornamentation, it stays at his side.

"Have him report to me when we make camp," Malik says abruptly. "After his work is done."

"Of course, my lord."

They set off at an easy walk, the kind of unhurried stride that makes all the days of preparation and anticipation feel almost anticlimactic. Their horses pick their way through the sands, sure-footed even on the unsteady surface, and they have only to trust the animals' instincts rather than trying to take control and direct them. Too many men have lost their way here, thinking themselves better prepared than the wild creatures that were born of this land.

The swaying gait leaves Malik too much time with his own thoughts. They have nearly a fortnight of travel before them, and no one is loquacious under the searing sun. Instead, he's left to ruminate on Altaïr's strange behavior and, as ever, how it might circle back to Al Mualim's greater plans. He can make no sense of it, though, and the lack of resolution leaves his mood further curdled.

Altaïr is no docile, obedient servant. When they first met, Malik might have thought it possible. That first summer, Altaïr seemed a quiet and studious young man with little in his mind but service to Al Mualim. It had taken two weeks of near-constant company for Malik to realize that his silence came from shyness rather than arrogance and another two till he convinced Altaïr to drop that shield-like hood. Then, he had seemed – pliable, almost. Like young wood, he stretched recklessly toward the warmth of praise and could be bent and shaped and still spring back.

When last Malik saw him, that youthfulness had hardened into rigid arrogance. Gone was the shy smile and faltering words and in their place was a man calcified by his own pride.

Now, Malik cannot determine from which source Altaïr's behavior springs. Does he really still retain some of that gentleness? It seems impossible. But what service could his silent, unrecognized, obedience provide to Al Mualim? Ingratiating himself into Malik's favor is unlikely to happen when Malik hadn't even known that Altaïr was being so obedient. Garnering favor among Malik's men in order to incite a rebellion of some sort seems even further fetched.

Grinding the heel of his palm into his brow, Malik releases a frustrated sigh. He can find no answer in this circuitous pondering. Whatever Al Mualim has planned – because, no matter whether it is meant for now or ten years hence, Al Mualim always has plans – Malik cannot divine it with the little information he currently holds.

They pause at midday in the shade of a valley. It's a narrow cleft, only a sharp jut of rock piercing the sand like a primeval wall, and the army has to crowd in together to enjoy any relief. Sweat and body heat mitigate the cooling effect, but there is still some relief simply from being out of the beating sun. Their horses are watered, and some set to plaiting their manes up their neck. Whether it brings the animals any comfort is hard to say, but Malik catches a few of the soldiers content in their weaving.

Bayek passes through them, his own mare left to the keeping of an officer.

"How are they faring?" Malik asks.

"Well," Bayek answers. "One of the camp followers fell ill an hour past, but they've been resting in one of the wagons now and seem recovered. No one else has had any issue."

Malik nods. Though he has little doubt of his soldiers' competence, this heat is merciless even for those who have spent their lives in it. There is always the risk of illness or death in these desert crossings.

“Your guard was the one to notice,” Bayek says.

The comment startles Malik out of his own thoughts, and he turns toward Bayek in full-body surprise. He should have better hold on his emotions and reactions, but he can’t quite act fast enough to stop this jolt. Bayek’s face is carefully neutral, an unreadable sort of impassivity that tells Malik nothing about his feelings on the matter.

“What,” Malik says more than asks.

The sentence is too incongruent with Altaïr to be conceivable.

“He was the one who noticed the follower seemed wane,” Bayek explains, “and to catch them when they fainted.”

Malik turns back to the front, out of sorts. He knows better than to disbelieve Bayek’s words, but that doesn’t make them make any better sense. The theory of Altaïr trying to ingratiate himself among the soldiers seems more likely of a sudden.

“Well,” Malik starts but then has nothing to follow.

What sort of reply would even make sense here? The whole situation is absurd to the point of making Malik half-believe he was gravely injured in the last battle and now wanders through the surreal landscapes of his own fever dreams. Perhaps the djinn are real and he has been ensnared in one of their illusory traps. It almost seems more likely than to believe this is all actually happening.

The rest of the day’s ride offers no further illumination. Bayek and Hamza trade riding positions, and Malik remains among the ranks of his vanguard. They continue past sunset, till the moon rises high and half-full and turns the sand a gleaming blue. Vagrant clouds shift restless across the sky, passing before the moon and turning the night to an impenetrable darkness only to slip away and leave their companies in the blue-white light of the moon.

When the moon is just shy of its zenith, they make camp. The oasis the outriders identified is barely large enough to host an army of their size, but they spiral around it like a snake curling around its nest. They’ll move again in the morning, but for the first day of travel, they have made good progress.

Only half the tents are pitched, and soldiers cluster together beneath them. Some, those who can’t stand such close company, lay out their bedrolls under the open air, and the night watch is posted along the perimeter of the camp. The rest of the tents fall into a sleepy quiet, fuzzy-edged silhouettes moving behind the fire-lit canvas of the tents. Malik finishes rubbing down his gelding before turning to his own tent. He’s only just set down his tack when he hears the quiet rustle of the tent flap. Turning, he finds Altaïr standing just inside.

“Altaïr,” he greets.

He’s not sure why he’s surprised to see him. After all, it was Malik’s own order to have Altaïr report to his tent. Some part of him has become accustomed to Altaïr’s absence, though, to his presence being shaped only by other’s words and not by his physical form. He seems larger in person, somehow, taller and more firmly rooted. His gaze is sharp and watchful where it rests on Malik.

“You asked for me,” Altaïr says.

Malik’s eyebrow raises. That’s a funny way to describe an order from a king.

“If you are to be my guard, you can hardly do your duty by skulking about the camp,” he replies.

Altaïr’s lips twist, just slightly, blanching the scar cutting through them. He’s never heard the story to that one, never saw it fresh or newly formed. It wasn’t there when he first met Altaïr and then, when he next saw him, it was silvery and old.

“Well? Help me disrobe,” Malik orders, impatient.

There’s a slight pause, as if Altaïr isn’t sure he heard that correctly, before he takes a step. Two more, and he stands before Malik, hands loosely curled at his sides. Taking pity on him, Malik turns his back and extends his arms slightly, enough to help Altaïr slide the djellaba from his back and shoulders. Even still, there is a moment where they stand there in silence before Malik feels the slightest brush against his shoulders, a gentle tension in the fabric as Altaïr pulls it from his shoulders. He manipulates Malik’s body carefully, never directly touching him.

The djellaba is draped over his saddle before Altaïr turns to the sash over Malik’s waist. It slides off Malik as if weighed down by the day, and he grimaces at the cool air against the sweat-soaked fabric of his tabard. Pressed tight to his body from the sash, it hasn’t had a chance to dry, and it is now damp and cold even through his under tunic. Altaïr slips his fingers under the hem of the arms and gently tugs, loosening it, before pulling it clear of Malik’s body.

This time, he hesitates. Only the thin linen under tunic remains, laced up Malik’s chest and wrists, and Malik half thinks Altaïr will balk at this. In the silence, he’s suddenly aware of how intimate this is. With his old guard, he’d never thought twice of it. Abdul had been brusque and efficient and thirty years Malik’s elder.

But Altaïr – this is not the first time he has helped Malik out of his robes.

The thought brings with it memories that make heat rise in Malik’s cheeks. Altaïr’s fingers had been deft and clever when they first met, as skilled at working loose laces as at throwing a dagger. He can still remember the feel of them, the callouses edging his fingertips, the way their gentle touch set goosebumps pebbling in their wake down his chest and belly.

Altaïr steps around to Malik’s front. His head is bowed as he lifts Malik’s wrist to start unfastening the laces there, pulling the knot undone with one quick tug. He’s grown since that summer, but though his hands are broader and rougher than they were, Malik can still see remnants of that youthful grace in them as Altaïr slips a finger under the lacings to pull them free. When he finishes, he lowers Malik’s wrist rather than dropping it.

When he’s finished with the sleeves, he turns to the neck of the shirt and works it loose with equal deftness. Malik tilts his chin up to allow him room to work and to allow himself the reprieve from watching Altaïr’s quick, familiar fingers.

At last, the tunic is pulled overhead and Malik is left in only his breeches and boots. His skin breaks into goosebumps, hair standing on end at the breeze. Even with the tent canvas as a barrier, it’s still something of a shock to feel the temperature difference after all his layers.

It takes a moment for Malik to realize that Altaïr hasn’t moved. The tunic hangs in one hand, the fabric crumpled where his grip has turned into a fist. His gaze sits unmoving on the straps crossing Malik’s shoulder and the wooden prosthesis that makes up three quarters of his arm. Malik’s gaze cools.

“Don’t care for your own handiwork?” he asks.

Altaïr looks to him, sharp.

“I did not do this,” he says.

Anger, slow-burning, flickers at the base of Malik’s spine. Instinctively, without thought, he straightens out of the relaxed half-slouch he’d fallen into, shoulders squaring as if he will actually strike Altaïr.

“You are entirely to blame for this,” he says, words clipped out like ice chips. “For this and for Kadar. You might as well have held the blade.”

Altaïr’s fist tightens, knuckles bleeding yellow-white. Malik refuses to drop his gaze, jaw tightening the longer Altaïr meets his eyes.

“The Templars – Robert de Sable—” Altaïr starts.

“Would never had had the opportunity if you had not been such a reckless, arrogant fool,” Malik spits. “They held the swords, but you gave them the opening.”

A muscle twinges at the back of Altaïr’s jaw as he turns to stony silence. Once, Malik might have felt sorry for targeting Altaïr’s weakest defense; words were ever his shortcoming, and Malik doesn’t care to fight someone who cannot defend themselves. He feels no such pity now. Part of him, the angry, bitter part that still wants to strip him and send him bare and broken into the desert, relishes the consternation in Altaïr’s expression as his words desert him.

“Leave it,” Malik snaps. “Take care of the robes. There is a bedroll in the trunk. Sleep wherever you will but stay out of the way.”

He stalks into the inner chamber of his tent and sets to working loose the prosthesis himself and shedding the lining underneath. Dropping into his cot, he extinguishes the candle beside it and lays in the gathering darkness, quiet. Outside the chamber, for a few minutes longer, he can hear the soft noises of Altaïr settling down. Then, those fade, and the only sound he can hear is the low whisper of the night breeze through the camp.

Staring up into the dark ceiling, Malik waits for sleep to find him. He knows he’s tired, can feel the heavy fatigue in his muscles and bones, yet his mind remains stubbornly alert. He can find no comfortable position on the cot, and his mind buzzes mosquito-like with half-formed thoughts. He’s careful not to move much, lest his cot creak or otherwise give him away. The last thing he needs is for Altaïr to think he’s still awake, stewing. It would be better to actually be awake from thoughts of Altaïr than to have him think he is.

Malik freezes.

Dragging his hand down his face, he swings his legs over the edge of the cot and pauses there with his elbow resting on his thigh. After a moment longer, he grabs his discarded undertunic and tugs it on before pulling on his boots and heading out.

Passing into the outer chamber of the tent, he nearly trips. As with his previous orders, Altaïr seems to be taking the idea of being a guard a bit more literally than Malik expected: his bedroll is stretched before the entrance such that his body provides a physical barrier between any potential intruders and Malik’s private quarters. Altaïr pushes up from his bedroll, hand reaching to his hip as if for a weapon.

“Malik, what—”

“Either go back to sleep or come along and be silent,” Malik interjects.

As he opens the tentflap, there’s the rustle of Altaïr standing and following. Neither speak as they walk through the sleeping camp, and they pass the outer guard with only a slight nod. They come to a halt at the top of a low dune just beyond the watch. Overhead, a half-full moon turns the dunes silver and blue against the dark of the night. Malik’s hand tightens in the loose sleeve of his left arm.

“Why did Al Mualim send you?” he demands.

“It is not my place to know his thoughts,” Altaïr answers.

His tone is curt, dismissive, the kind he uses when he’s repeating someone else’s words. They come too quickly to be born of his own thoughts, springing fully formed from his lips.

“So you have lost even your beloved master’s confidence,” Malik sneers. “How you have fallen, to be discarded like so much waste, used up and cast out.”

Altaïr doesn’t flinch, but the moon’s silver-blue light betrays the tightening of his jaw, the new tension in his shoulders. Malik savors the satisfaction of aiming true and being rewarded for the effort. When he was a child, his mother praised his quick mind but cautioned against using his words like darts to stick in the weak points of others. He feels little guilt now.

“He sent me here to learn a lesson,” Altaïr spits.

“What lesson?” Malik asks.

“If I knew, I wouldn’t need to learn it, would I?” Altaïr snaps.

Those, again, are Al Mualim’s words. He is the kind of mentor who would teach a child arithmetic by locking them in a larder until they discovered it themself.

“So he has sent you here to learn a mysterious lesson that you won’t even know you’ve learned,” Malik says. “You could at least learn how to better lie, Altaïr. Assassins have only one purpose. _You_ have only one purpose.”

He turns to Altaïr fully, spreading his arms wide. The breeze catches in the linen shirt, wrapping it close to his side. Altaïr stares back at him, confusion in his brow.

“So do it,” Malik says, dares. “Kill me. Win your master the territory and power he desires and bring yourself back into his favor.”

“Malik, stop,” Altaïr says. “I am not here to kill you.”

Malik scoffs and holds his ground. This is reckless, some quiet voice protests. This is foolish. It sounds too much like Kadar. He blocks it out.

“You think I would believe some tale about you being an innocent pupil of our ways? I know you too well, Altaïr,” Malik says.

“Malik, I do not want to kill you,” Altaïr protests.

“And if Al Mualim told you to?”

“I—”

Altaïr stops, falters. His lips part as if to speak, but no words come. Disgusted, Malik drops his arms. Altaïr has taken a half-step back, his shoulders curving inwards, and the motion makes Malik temporarily taller than him.

“You are a coward, Altaïr,” he says. “You hide behind Al Mualim so that you do not have to think for yourself, so that you can evade the consequences of your own actions. I would die before trusting you again.”

Altaïr makes no move to stop him, offers no objection as Malik brushes past. Malik cuts through the camp to his tent and from there, straight to his cot. He falls asleep before he hears Altaïr return, into a dreamless and restive night.

In the morning, his arm aches with the tingling sensation of being bound too-tight in bandages. Clenching his hand briefly, he can feel the callouses of his fingertips rub and catch on those of his palm. With a sigh, he releases the fist and reaches out for the lantern by his bed. He opens his eyes.

He can feel his arm reaching out, can feel the gentle pull of his skin across his palm. His shoulder is raised in the gesture, but there is no hand. His arm ends abruptly where his elbow would be. Prickles still tingle down his arm like needle tips in his veins. He swallows and sits up, using his right hand to light the lantern he was reaching for.

This happens, sometimes. The doctors say it’s normal, that it happens often enough. The body can’t always let go of what used to be. What it thinks should be.

He dresses, stubbornly ignoring the pain running through the hand that isn’t there. Altaïr has already vanished by the time he exits his inner chamber, and Malik is grateful for his absence. He has no energy to spare for verbal sparring or even for summoning up his disgust and disdain. Instead, he turns to where the horses are gathered and sets about preparing his gelding for the day’s ride. The armies move out as the sun crests the horizon, pale and milky in the sky.

By midmorning, he’s joined by Rauf. The Assassin greets him with a smile and slight bow of his chest. For some time, they ride together in companionable quiet. Slowly, Malik’s temper eases, assuaged by Rauf’s steady company.

“It has been some years since I was in Masyaf,” he remarks. “How fares the Order?”

Rauf shoots him a sidelong look, one corner of his lips pulling up in something like amusement.

“I am loyal to the Order, Malik,” he chides mildly.

The gentle rebuke doesn’t faze Malik. He hadn’t expected Rauf to start spilling the Assassins’ greatest secrets. Right now, he will take what ever crumbs he can get that might offer some insight into Al Mualim’s plans. More than that, he is genuinely curious. The sentiment surprises him, but perhaps it’s natural now that the Order has been brought so suddenly back into his life in both fraught and friendly forms.

“It is not the brotherhood you knew,” Rauf says after a moment.

When Malik looks to him, his expression is pensive, lips thinned and a line forming in the crease of his brow.

“Much that was once shared is now kept secret, and loyalty is no longer given to each other but to the cause,” he continues.

Malik frowns. It seems a good thing, to have the Order’s forces unwaveringly sworn to the cause rather than pulled apart by petty alliances to one another, but Rauf’s voice does not affirm that interpretation. If that is the case, Malik should be gladdened by their weakness, but instead, he finds himself unsettled. Though Al Mualim has ever played his own games, the Assassins hold no insignificant influence on the politics on the surrounding states. If they were to dissolve – or, worse yet, break into violent dissolution – he dreads to think of the consequences on the region’s stability.

Beyond that, he fears what might cause this deterioration. Al Mualim has ever strived to keep the Order powerful and protected. It’s cynical to think, but Malik does not believe that effort comes from altruism so much as a desire to ensure Al Mualim’s own authority. He would not let it fall into neglect or ruin unless he had some other way to secure his own power. The thought unnerves Malik, makes paranoia crawl spiderlike under his skin.

“And your men?” he asks.

“Loyal and skilled,” Rauf answers readily. There’s a note of pride in his voice. “I trained or fought with each of them.”

Malik nods. That, at least, is good news. Their number may be few, but he trusts Rauf’s estimation of the men. One does not become sword master of Masyaf without a keen eye and true assessment of their pupils. If they are loyal to Rauf, then Malik will trust them – or at least, trust in their obedience to Rauf.

“Your new guard far outranks them, though,” Rauf says. “In skill if not in title.”

At that, Malik manages only a noncommittal hum. He isn’t terribly interested in discussing Altaïr at the moment, much less in hearing him praised. Still, an opening is an opening.

“Last I knew, his title would outrank most in Masyaf,” he remarks.

He aims for neutrality in his tone, nothing more than genial curiosity. In the corner of his gaze, he sees Rauf eyeing him. After a moment of quiet judgment, Rauf turns back to the front.

“I cannot tell you the terms of Altaïr’s dismissal,” he says, “because I do not know it, but I know he angered Al Mualim. He was stripped of his rank and equipment before the Brotherhood. After that, no one knew what happened to him.”

That paints an interesting picture, though great gaps still linger unfinished. Malik can hardly imagine Altaïr angering Al Mualim – Altaïr bends to the man’s will like a beaten dog around their master’s ankles. Surely he wouldn’t have challenged the old man or refused an order. Either possibility seems far-fetched.

“Perhaps his pride has finally defeated him,” Malik says.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Rauf admits, “though the lesson does not seem to stick.”

Malik scoffs.

“Because his skull is as hard and thick as stone,” he retorts.

Rauf laughs, a full-bellied sound that breaks through the wary solemnity of their conversation. A smile quirks up Malik’s lips, and he lets the tension slide away. He will have enough time when they’ve returned to court to puzzle out the political intrigues and efforts of his enemies and friends alike. For now, it is good to bask in the warm morning sun and the branches of something almost like friendship.

They stop in the early afternoon, as the heat begins to settle in. Camp is made briskly: they will wait out the heat of the day here and move again once the cool of the night returns. Most the army is still well-rested from the previous night, and though they settle in beneath the canvas cover of their tents, it’s likely only to doze or pass the time with their fellow soldiers. Horses are stripped of their tack and rubbed down before being turned loose to rest themselves. The next few days will not be half so leisurely.

Malik’s own tent for the rest of the trip is the same as his soldiers’, and he has to duck to enter. The dark is not so deep as beneath the heavier fabric of his campaign tent, and his eyes barely need a blink to readjust. The interior is sparse, with only his bedroll and a small trunk of possessions. For a moment, he stands frowning at the second bedroll placed beside his own before he hears a quiet noise behind him.

Turning, he finds Altaïr still stooped halfway in the doorway. His gaze flickers over the interior of the tent, the small space, the two bedrolls, and up to Malik.

“Are you going to stand in the doorway the whole day?” Malik demands.

For a beat, Malik thinks that is all it will take to scare him off. Then, reluctantly, Altaïr steps fully into the tent and straightens as much as he can. He isn’t much taller than Malik, but it is just enough to make him hunch slightly and still brush the canvas ceiling. His discomfort should bring Malik some kind of satisfaction, but he finds he has little energy for it today. Between his own pain and the uneasy talks he’s had, he is nearly wrung out.

Taking his own bedroll, he shakes it out and settles down upon it. He pulls the trunk close and pulls out a sheaf of correspondence from his advisors. He still has yet to come to a decision on the man begging for pardon, and he does not address that one. Instead, he focuses on easier issues: a law proposed to close one of the loopholes in inheritance taxes, an upcoming masque to celebrate the equinox, a note about the matriarch of the Verdunne tribes requesting an audience.

He’s immersed in his work by the time Altaïr finally lays out his own bedroll and sits gingerly down on it. He sits cross-legged, hunched over and picking at the leather strap of his sandal. For a few moments, Malik watches him over the top of his parchment and waits for Altaïr to lay down and sleep or find some other amusement. He waits in vain.

“You should sleep,” Malik says. “We will ride again at dusk.”

Altaïr looks up, sharp. There’s something a little lost in his gaze, as if he had been submerged in his own thoughts and Malik’s voice dragged him out of them too quickly. After a moment, he gives a slight nod and settles down onto his side. One arm folds beneath his head in a poor pillow, and the other curves protectively over his torso. He draws his legs up, too, till he has shielded all the soft spots that might be vulnerable to attack. Malik watches a moment longer before forcing his attention back to his work. A few minutes later, Altaïr’s breathing settles into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

Reading through and answering correspondence takes little effort, and it isn’t long before Malik is blinking heavy lids. When he has to reread the same sentence a third time, he admits defeat. The letters are stowed carefully in the trunk, and he stretches out with his hand folded over his prosthesis on his belly. The light shines through the canvas in featherlight shafts that turn the shadows warm. He closes his eyes, and sleep rises up like welcoming arms.

When he wakes, he’s rolled onto his stomach with his arm wrapped around his head, and the shadows angle long against the sand. Altaïr is propped up on one hand, head turned toward the western corner of the tent and eyes alert. He straightens slowly, pulling himself into a crouch. He glances toward Malik but gives no acknowledgment before he’s creeping across the tight space. In a flash of movement, he’s out of the tent. Malik sits up properly, rubbing at his shoulder. Outside, he can hear the noise of a scuffle, and he rises to follow Altaïr. His hand closes around the handle of his sword.

The evening sun paints the dunes red and sets a gilded edge to Altaïr’s silhouette. There are two figures with him – one on the ground with his foot a threat against their throat and the other scrabbling ineffectually against his arm around theirs. The pair of them are ragged and thin, their feet dark with mud and clothing threadbare. Neither is old, but the one on the ground at least has the start of a beard while the other is little more than a child. Altaïr looks to Malik.

“Thieves,” he says, somewhat needlessly.

“I see that,” Malik replies, releasing his sword.

The one in the headlock follows the motion with wide eyes, and his struggles cease. Malik crosses his arms, folding his right hand over the stiff wooden elbow.

“Do you know the punishment for stealing from the king?” he asks.

“Please,” the one on the ground blurts out. “It was my idea! It was my fault! He didn’t want to do it. Please, sire, I should take the punishment.”

The outburst doesn’t surprise Malik. He’d been banking on it, to some extent. It was never good for morale to cut off someone’s hand in the middle of a long trek.

“You both committed the crime,” Malik says.

The one on the ground starts to struggle, finally, though they’re stopped quickly enough when Altaïr adds some slight pressure against their throat. They gulp, wide-eyed.

“Why are you here?” Malik asks.

“We just wanted food,” the younger one says. “We just wanted something to sell so we could get bread.”

They seem fully heedless of their audience, of the gravity of the situation, and the older one strains against Altaïr’s casual hold. By now, two guards have arrived, no doubt having heard the commotion. Flanked by them, Malik knows he cuts an imposing figure for two half-starved desert foragers. He flicks his hand in a quick gesture. The guards step forward, and the boys’ eyes widen.

“Take them to the cooks and let them eat their fill,” Malik orders. “Ensure they are given enough provisions to make it to the next town.”

The pair goes slack even as Altaïr relinquishes his hold on them. Wariness follows soon after as they seem to search for some catch.

“If you are seen here again, you will both lose your right hands,” Malik warns. “A third time, and it is death.”

Cowed, they dip their heads in quick nods and mumble thank-yous as the guards lead them past. When they are gone, Malik looks up to find Altaïr watching him with his head canted. His amber eyes are sharp where they rest on him, too keen in their stare. They don’t gleam with the uncanny Sight Malik has seen before, but his look is still uncomfortably perceptive.

“You would not kill children for trying to stave off hunger,” he says.

Malik’s lips twitch, and he has to fight down the urge to assert that Altaïr knows nothing about him. He turns back toward the tent instead.

“No,” he says. “But perhaps it will keep them from targeting some less lenient company.”

Behind him, Altaïr gives no answer, but he follows as Malik re-enters the tent. There’s little point in trying to get more sleep, so Malik sets to rolling his bedding up instead. After a moment, Altaïr follows his lead.

“You’ll ride with me the rest of the night,” Malik says, off-handed, when he’s buckled both straps around the roll.

Altaïr looks up, sharp, before dropping his gaze. His words are little more than a mutter, but Malik can still make them out:

“I don’t have a horse.”

Malik stares at him as the words process. All initiates are given a horse. Many of them are chosen from the cavalry anyway, but even those who aren’t are assured a decent mount. Altaïr should have likewise been given one his first day on the march if not the very first day he arrived.

“What,” is all that manages to escape.

Altaïr stubbornly refuses to look up from the bedroll that’s already perfectly neatened and bound. His shoulders have risen like wolf’s hackles, defensive.

“There was a woman with two small children,” he says. “On their own, they would have made easy prey for scavengers, and that could lead them to the—”

“Altair, stop,” Malik says, raising his hands.

At his words, Altaïr looks up. His shoulders are still raised, hands still tight in the bedroll, as if he expects to be punished for his altruism. Something like guilt worms into Malik’s belly, though he can’t pinpoint the cause. He isn’t to blame for this, for Altaïr’s expectation of rebuke. Altaïr is a grown man. Still, the knowledge that Altaïr might have expected his ire for this action settles uneasily in his stomach.

“We will get you a new horse,” he says.

The words don’t quite soothe Altair – tension lingers in his shoulders and wariness in his eyes – but he doesn’t offer any more justification. Incrementally, his shoulders ease.

They leave the tent together to let the pages continue their work tearing down. It’s quick work to find the horsemaster and request a new mount for Altaïr. There are a few options, though, and it takes a few minutes longer for Altaïr to decide. When the horsemaster first shows them to the horses, Altaïr looks to Malik as if for permission.

“Take your time,” Malik says with a wave of his hand and settles in to wait.

The first hint of a smile flickers over Altair’s lips, but he turns away before it becomes anything greater than a suggestion.

To his surprise, Malik almost enjoys watching Altaïr pick between the horses. He’s methodical about it, approaching each and letting them lip at his upturned palm before checking their shoulders and backs and legs. It shouldn’t surprise him: Altaïr has always been meticulous about his equipment, and a horse is, objectively, just a very large part of that. Still, there’s something bordering on endearing about watching his careful introduction to and inspection of each horse.

At last, he decides on a grey mare with silver-white mane and tail. She tosses her head at his approach but reaches out when he pulls away, lipping over his hand. One corner of Altaïr’s lips curl up, crinkling the silver-pink scar cutting through them.

“This one,” he says, turning to the horsemaster.

The other man gives an approving nod.

“Tayr,” he says. “Swift as the wind and as restless, too.”

Malik’s eyebrows raise.

“A fitting match,” he remarks.

Altaïr runs a hand down her proud neck and doesn’t make a comment, though there’s a little smile playing at his lips.

The rest of the evening’s preparations are taken care of in what seems only minutes. When they tack up, this time, Altaïr is on Malik’s side opposite Bayek. Bayek says nothing, though Malik can feel his gaze sliding between Malik and Altaïr.

It’s not as if there’s anything to say or explain. When Altaïr first arrived, he told Bayek of his intentions. This is only following through.

Telling himself that works to an extent. He reminds himself of it, of the inherent danger of Altaïr’s presence, when Altaïr nudges his mare in line with Malik. He will not let Altaïr back in, will not forget the ruin that walks in step with him. Together, they set out into the night.

For the first few hours, the sun still hangs just above the horizon and provides them with gold-burnished illumination. The heat of the day abates with the setting of the sun, and there’s nearly a collective sigh of relief when the night breezes start to pick up. Under his djellaba and layers, Malik can hardly feel it, but it is a welcome touch where it brushes against his face and neck. He closes his eyes, briefly, and indulges in the comfort.

Chancing a glance to his side, Malik finds Altaïr doesn’t seem to share his enjoyment. There’s a frown creased into his brow as if freshly folded, and his lips are pressed thin. He holds the reins only loosely in one hand, but the other rubs at his exposed wrist. Malik watches a moment, narrowing his eyes as he takes in Altaïr’s expression. He knows it isn’t the first time Altaïr has ridden by night, and he can’t imagine the venture frightening him even if it was. Anyway, Altaïr’s look isn’t one of fear, exactly – more consternation, perhaps, or deep thought. Turning back to the front, Malik leaves him to it.

They ride through the night, till yawns are a near-constant nuisance, and only stop in the late morning when the sun is nearly to its peak. Malik slides out of his saddle, dropping into the sand with heartfelt relief. By the end of this trip, he thinks his knees and hips will be happy to never sit in a saddle again. He rubs at his eye and fends off a yawn as he begins to strip his gelding of its tack.

“You should rest,” Altaïr says.

His voice comes far closer than Malik realized, just behind his shoulder, and Malik startles. His hand falls to his sword instinctively before he realizes who it is and relaxes.

“That is why we’re stopping,” Malik points out, annoyed.

“No, I mean” – Altaïr lets out a huff of air, his hand closing on emptiness before he reopens it to gesture at Malik’s horse – “I can take care of it. And you can go rest. That’s what a guard is supposed to do, isn’t it? To serve the king.”

Malik stares. Normally, he might feel some modicum of embarrassment at so openly gaping, but he thinks this is an absurd enough situation to warrant it. It is an absurd enough situation to warrant just about anything, including pinching his thigh to be sure he isn’t dreaming. He only barely refrains.

“Fine,” he says, because he’s not sure what else will pass his lips if he reaches for more words.

He leaves Altaïr to it and only glances back once as he walks toward his waiting tent. When he does, Altaïr is rubbing down the gelding’s shoulders with its great head hooked comfortably over his shoulder. He looks younger than he should, like a stable boy attuned to his charges. The thought makes Malik look away.

The tent has already been prepared when he arrives, but he spends a minute standing beneath the canvas in the quiet. There’s an old, familiar feeling deep beneath his ribs, a slow unfurling he isn’t quite sure he wants to address. It’s been a long while since he last felt it, but its featherlight touch is as known to him as his name or the weight of his sword in his hand. Swallowing, he reaches out for his bedroll and begins unbuckling it.

By the time Altaïr returns, Malik has smoothed the roll out against the sand and just started shedding his outer layers. He glances over his shoulder at the whisper of the tent flap, but this time, Altaïr doesn’t hesitate in the doorway before entering.

“You seem to have a way with the horses,” Malik remarks.

It’s a concession of sorts, a reluctant compromise with that feeling between his bones. Altaïr sets to unbuckling his own bedroll and laying it out.

“They are simpler than people, sometimes,” he says without looking up.

That is familiar, in its own way. The first time he’d ever seen Altaïr look more human than statue, he’d been crouched down to run a careful hand over the spine of one of the palace stables’ cats. His stern face had been softened by gentle delight and his hand, so often curled around the handle of his sword, had touched the stray as gingerly as if they were formed of flower petals.

Now, Malik only hums in acknowledgment and drops his tabard to the ground. The heat of the day and the long hours have left his shoulder swollen and tight, pressing against the confines of the prosthesis’ casing. He unlaces his undershirt and pushes it down around his waist rather than pulling it all the way off so he can set to work on the straps more quickly.

“I could help. If you want.”

His fingertips are just hooked under the bend of the top strap when he stills and twists to look over his shoulder at Altaïr. Instinctively, a refusal comes to his lips even as his hackles rise. He doesn’t need help. He doesn’t need pandering. It takes some effort to soothe that reflex and acknowledge the soreness of his own body.

“Very well,” he says, dropping his hand and turning fully toward Altaïr.

His acquiescence seems to startle Altaïr, but he recovers quickly enough and crosses the small space to set to work. Malik leans his head away to give him better access, and Altaïr bows over his work. His fingers are deft and sure as they work under each strap and tug it loose. With the last one released, Malik can feel his whole chest and body ease. Altaïr draws the prosthesis off his arm, but little reaction crosses his face at the sight of the truncated limb. There’s no pity or disgust or any of those emotions Malik dreads. A strange sense of relief, little to do with the lack of the prosthesis’ constriction, relaxes Malik’s shoulders.

As Altaïr sets the prosthesis down on top of Malik’s discarded robes, he finishes undressing till he’s only in his breeches and leaves his shirt and boots among the rest of the clothes. For Altaïr, disrobing is far briefer: once the cuirass and vambraces are off, he has only to remove a doublet and he’s down to the linen undertunic all initiates wear. It’s not a particularly flattering piece of fabric: square and boxy, it accentuates Altaïr’s leanness until he looks almost gangly, like an adolescent boy grown out of his own clothes.

If he notices, Altaïr doesn’t seem to mind. He settles down on his roll with a quiet, deep sigh, and curls tight. In moments, he is asleep.

Malik is slower to follow. He sits down and massages his aching shoulder for a few minutes before letting his hand drop to his lap and shoulders loosen. His thoughts, unsettled, curl and chase each other like wisps of smoke. He can find no answer among them, no guidance. Finally, running his hand down his face, he accepts the unknowing and lays down as well. The last thought he remembers before drifting off is that Altaïr looks younger in his sleep, almost like the boy Malik once knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So technically this whole thing is written (it was my first ever Camp NaNo project!!) but posting may be a little irregular as I'm editing each chapter individually and still need to write a uhhhh somewhat critical scene in a later chapter lmao
> 
> anywho hope y'all are enjoying it and if you wanna chat I'm on tumblr at [curiosity-killed](curiosity-killed.tumblr.com) :)


	3. Though I May Never See You Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Chains" by Radical Face for this ol' section <3

A week and a half into their journey, they are near enough to send outriders all the way to the citadel. The anticipation of their return brings Malik unwonted good humor, as if proximity to the capital assures good news. It’s its own kind of magic, as if the land welcomes its king and people back. He thinks it must. After this many days marching through the desert, any kind of permanent settlement is a blessing.

They’re close enough to the end of the journey that, when they reach the river in the middle of the morning, Malik approves the indulgence of stopping and setting camp there. The men are nearly riotous with delight, splashing in the river like children and dunking each other under the water. Malik is left out of the roughhousing by virtue of his crown, but he doesn’t mind. The cold water is a welcome relief as he wades in, soaking him to the bone. The contrast with the heat of the sun and air is enough to make him shiver, and he closes his eyes and lets the cool sink in.

After they've had their fill, the army sets to preparing camp properly. Still, the sense of celebration lingers on. The cooks seem to have opened up their stores, and bottles of liquor are passed around as they set about cooking the midday meal. As the afternoon melts through evening, contests spring up, silly matches of wit or strength; someone procures a set of targets, and a throwing knife competition begins. Malik watches as one of the other initiates nearly drags Altair over to join. He hides a smile and slips away.

Past the perimeter of the camp, there's a dune high enough for him to see the hazy peaks of the mountains. He sheds his djellaba and sits down on it, leaning back on his right hand and gazing out toward home. When he was young, he would often ride out as far as his horse could take him and spend the night sleeping under the desert stars. It had driven his father half-mad, concern making him tight and anxious every time Malik wandered back in with sand in his hair. His mother had always laughed and soothed his father. Her family had been nomadic, goatherds who mapped the whole of the desert with their own feet. There'd always been something of pride in her voice when she said Malik's own restlessness was borne of her own blood. He wonders what she'd think to see him still seeking out the vast quiet of the desert now, as a grown man and king.

There's a noise behind him, and he twists to see Altaïr standing a meter or so shy of his spot. Malik's eyebrows raise.

"You don't need to leave the festivities for my sake," he says. "It seemed you've acquired some new fans."

Altaïr shrugs and takes a step closer.

"I prefer the quiet," he says, coming to the edge of Malik's djellaba. He lifts his right hand to reveal a full jug of wine, and he offers a tentative smile. "I brought wine."

Breathing out a quiet laugh, Malik gestures for him to take a seat. Perhaps it's only the nostalgia from thinking of his family or the joy of his soldiers is contagious, but Altaïr's olive branch is strangely endearing.

Altaïr tugs the cork out of the bottle's neck and passes it to Malik first. It's a sweet wine, crafted in the outer lands of the kingdom. Though it isn't necessarily rare in the capital, it isn't the everyday wine, and the fruity taste is refreshing in the late sun. He hands it back to Altaïr.

They sit in companionable silence, sharing the wine with little need for conversation for some time as the sun sinks behind them.

"Do you remember when you came to Tajalsef?" Malik asks abruptly.

From the corner of his eye, he catches Altaïr shoot him a curious side-eye.

“Yes,” he answers, an inquisitive lilt to his tone.

“I always thought you might return someday,” Malik admits. “Though I didn’t imagine it would be like this.”

The confession doesn’t hurt anymore. Once, it would have. After Altaïr returned to Masyaf, they had kept up an intermittent correspondence. It was nothing like the overwrought love letters of the great romances, but Malik had always greeted his short little letters with a swell of delight. Then, all at once, they had stopped. For a few years after, the hurt of Altaïr’s silence had been a raw wound.

“I wanted to,” Altaïr says.

Malik looks to him, an eyebrow arching. If it’s an attempt at consolation, it’s unnecessary and almost insulting. Malik hasn’t spent this many years weeping about him like a heartbroken boy. Altaïr doesn’t meet his gaze: he’s frowning at the far-off mountains, gaze focused and tight.

"I" – he breaks off, lips twisting. "I wanted to return. But Al Mualim did not want me to lose sight of the needs of the Brotherhood."

He looks down at his hands where they're wrapped loosely around the neck of the bottle. His shoulders have curved, hunched, a little, and bowing his head as he does now draws the line of his neck long and sharp. Each notch of his spine is articulated by the evening sun.

"We aren't supposed to have – attachments," Altaïr finishes.

The words are echoes of someone else's, and they sound hollow falling from Altaïr's mouth. It doesn't seem like he even believes them as he says them. Malik's heart gives an unwonted pang, a sharp twist of surprise. He had always assumed Altaïr chose to stop writing because he grew bored of Malik, grew too obsessed with his own accomplishments and training. He isn't quite sure what to think now.

"I thought everything was permitted in your Order," Malik remarks.

His voice is carefully neutral, almost nonchalant. Altaïr tilts his head to one side in the slightest of noncommittal nods.

"There are limitations to all liberty," he says. Glancing at Malik, his lips quirk up. "Nothing is true, anyway."

It's the most flippant Malik has ever heard an Assassin in reference to their creed, and he's not sure what to make of it. Reaching over, he slips the wine out of Altaïr's loose grip and swallows down a draught. It's easier than trying to come up with the right words.

Quiet settles between them once more as the sun sinks closer to the horizon. Their shadows stretch long and deep down the dune, melding into the sand's own shadows. The first stars emerge in diamond-tipped pinpricks of white against the purple and red of the sky, and Malik leans back to tilt his head up and watch them flicker into sight overhead. There's a quiet noise and the fabric of his djellaba rumples a little against his side. Glancing over, he hides a smile: Altaïr has laid back on the sand, stretching out with his hands folded neatly over his stomach. He glances up at Malik, gaze open and curious. Instead of saying anything, Malik follows his lead and lays back as well.

"I used to climb up to the highest tower in Masyaf to watch the stars," Altaïr says after a few moments’ quiet. "I could name every constellation."

"And you never broke your neck climbing down in the dark?" Malik asks.

That earns a soft laugh from beside him. He glances over to find a small smile pulling at Altaïr's lips.

"No," Altaïr admits, "though I earned my share of bruises and scrapes."

That sounds about right. Turning back to the sky, Malik suppresses his own smile. His whole body feels comfortably heavy, the kind of sleepy weight that comes from welcome company and good liquor. The sand seems the softest bed, so long as it is shared.

"My baba taught Kadar and I many of the legends," he says. "Kadar was always begging him to tell us the one about Aquila till I think he could repeat it by rote."

Altaïr gives a little hum, acknowledgment or encouragement of some kind. Kadar's name rolls easily off Malik's tongue, the memory bringing with it no fresh pain. It's a fond memory, as much as he was often exasperated by his little brother's obsession with the tale. If he tries hard enough, he can almost picture Kadar's little-kid face all bright with delight and fascination. The image is worn-soft, age and distance making it blurry. It's been over a year since he last saw Kadar, and by then, he was nearly a man. Childhood seems an ancient thing, the refuge of another age.

"He was half-convinced you were the incarnation of Aquila," Malik remarks, surprising himself.

In the corner of his gaze, he can see Altaïr turn to him, sharp. A frown is etched into his brow, visible even in the fading light. Malik keeps his gaze steady on the skies.

"A stranger, skilled in warfare, with no ties to bind him," Malik explains. "He could make anyone fit the story, but he did idolize you."

Whether it's the liquor or the distance, Malik can't quite tell, but there's a gentle numbness to the words. A year ago, he would have cut out his own tongue before telling Altaïr such things. He's not sure when that changed. Perhaps that wound scarred longer ago than he realized and he's only just realizing it now as Altaïr's presence prods at the scar tissue.

Altaïr turns back to the front, but his eyes are no longer lifted toward the stars. With a sigh, Malik pushes himself up.

"Come, we should get some sleep before we leave again," he says, offering his hand.

For a moment, he thinks Altaïr will refuse the help; his gaze has the wariness of a wild animal, expecting a trap. He waits, though, and Altaïr finally accepts the hand. Together, they clean up and Malik drapes the djellaba over his prosthesis while Altaïr carries the now-empty bottle.

They've just reached the edge of the camp when there's a shout, and Hamza comes racing toward them. He nearly collides with them, moving fast enough that Altaïr steps forward defensively, blocking Malik with his own body. It happens so quickly Malik doesn't have time to protest or question it. He blinks at Altaïr's silhouette and makes himself shake it off before turning to Hamza.

"My king," Hamza greets, out of breath, "we need to speak. Urgently."

"What is it?" Malik asks, stepping around Altaïr.

There is fear, real fear, in Hamza's voice, and it makes Malik's hair stand on end. The general has always been confident, almost nonchalant in his relationship with danger. Malik can't remember every seeing him scared.

Now, Hamza shoots a look at Altaïr and holds his tongue.

"Hamza," Malik orders, "whatever it is, tell me now."

Even with the direct command, there is a beat where it seems Hamza will refuse to speak before Altaïr. Finally, he relents.

"It's Tajalsef, my lord," he says. "It's been taken."

It unfolds piece by piece in the night shadows. Normally, a counsel such as this would be held in Malik’s own tent, around a strategy table. There is no time for that, now. The four of them wouldn’t even fit in the tent Malik’s been using throughout this trip. They weren’t prepared for this, not for anything like it. Scavengers, perhaps, even a party of bandits – but not an army, not to come home only to find its doors bristling with enemy spears.

Hamza fills them in in quick, sharp words. The most recent set of outriders departed as scheduled but did not return. When they’d passed both check-ins, a second set was sent out to find out what had happened. They returned at a gallop, with fear in their eyes, and sweat frothing on their horses’ hides.

They’d found a pocket of civilians who had escaped the city walls, and they told a fantastic tale: that Al Mualim had ridden in with his men to find the gates spread wide open, Abbas greeting him like an old friend. Where there had been protest, Al Mualim had held aloft a magical orb that turned every man, woman, and child in the city to automatons who submitted to the new rule without question or protest. The doors had been opened to them,

Beside Malik, Altaïr stiffens.

“The Apple,” he says, looking to Malik.

Even half-expecting to hear those words, Malik still feels a chill run down his spine. His experience with the Apple was brief and horrifying. The thought of it now makes bile rise in the back of his throat.

Hamza and Bayek look to Altaïr in confusion.

“Get Rauf,” Malik says before they can ask. “Bring him here.”

“Another Assassin? My lord, are you—” Hamza starts.

“If he is part of this, then it is better to keep him in sight,” Malik interjects, “and either way, he may provide us with illumination.”

He hopes Rauf isn’t part of this. He doesn’t want to believe the man capable – he seems too genuine, too rare a sincerity in his actions and words.

Hamza goes without any further protest, and the three of them are left in silence. There's little more to be said. Words have ever been Malik's greatest weapon, yet they fail him now. As they wait, Bayek chances a glance at Altaïr with a pinched brow. Whatever is on his mind, he does not speak it before Hamza returns with Rauf in tow.

"My lord?" Rauf greets, giving a slight bow even as his eyes flick between the trio.

"Al Mualim has taken Tajalsef," Malik says bluntly.

Rauf stills, lips parting just slightly. He makes no immediate move to respond or speak at all; his eyes widen, jaw gone slack. If he is acting, then it is with skill beyond Malik's estimation.

"What were Al Mualim's orders to you for your time with our armies?" Malik demands.

He doesn't answer immediately. Closing his lips, Rauf's jaw works as if chewing at unspoken words. When he speaks, his tone is more somber and curt than Malik remembers ever hearing it.

"I was to accompany you as far as Tajalsef,” Rauf says. “After that, we were to continue on to Samrath. I was given no further instruction.”

He pauses, drawing in a breath and looking to Malik with a tight brow.

“I know you have no cause to believe me,” he says, “but I knew nothing of this.”

Perhaps it’s foolishness, a lethal kind of gullibility, but Malik believes him. There’s an urgency to his words and a resignation – he wants to be believed but does not expect it. Somehow, Malik finds a strange comfort in that. He turns to Bayek.

“Send our swiftest rider to Myrrine,” he orders. “We will need any reinforcement we can get.”

He prays she will lend some. Their nations have always been friendly, but Myrrine’s primary concern has ever been her own people. She won’t engage in a war that she feels is beyond her purview.

They have other allies, too, princes in their own right who have long been friendly with Malik’s kingdom. Against any other enemy, Malik would not hesitate to draw on their alliances ­– but he does not know where their loyalties would fall in this. Long ago, Masyaf was the seat of magic in the region, and all princes were sent to its walls to learn wisdom and guidance from its sages. Even now, when magic has nearly faded to the memory of yesteryear, the practice continues. Those other princes, like Malik and Kadar, were sent to Masyaf in their youth – but they stayed for more than a season and left with less bitterness in their hearts. What good would it be to call on a friend only to find a new enemy?

“We ride tonight,” he says, turning back to the whole group. “We will make camp a half day’s ride from the citadel.”

His generals give no protest, only firm nods before they separate. The camp is dismantled in near-silence, the soldiers swift and serious. Few are rested: some have to be roused from their beds, and others are still unsteady with drink. They cannot afford to hold on until they are better prepared; they do not have time to wait or waste.

The army moves out near midnight, horses pressed to the limit of their ability with riders and cargo. Overhead, the moon gleams bright as a silver coin in the sky and sheds light on their uneven way. Altaïr stays at Malik’s side, though they share no words.

They ride through till late morning, till horse and man alike is dragging with fatigue. No effort is made to set up a proper camp; they rest under open air and eat dried provisions from the stores. In early evening, they leave once more.

For three days, they repeat this exhausting march until at last the walls of the citadel rise high before them from the long arcs of the sand dunes. At last, they stop. Camp is made in the start of the foothills leading to the capital, a true war camp with full tents and fences and order. Standing before the preparations, Malik swallows hard. Never in his lifetime nor his father’s has a war party camped outside the walls of Tajalsef.

He walks to his tent with dragging feet, a leaden weariness in his back and bones. Altaïr follows in his footsteps, shadow-like in the early evening. Inside, a fire has already been dug into the sand, and the rest of the tent made ready. Malik pauses just inside, unsteadied by the déjà vu of the scene. None of this is as it should be. He should have known better, should have routed Al Mualim or at least bettered prepared his city and advisors.

A weight rests, hovers, against his shoulder. Glancing over, he finds Altaïr at his side, his hand resting on Malik’s shoulder as if he will steal it back at the slightest sign. Sighing, Malik steps forward.

Altaïr helps Malik shed his djellaba and outer robes, quiet and needing no instruction as he works through the now-familiar motions. After his prosthesis is set aside, Malik reaches back and draws his djellaba over his shoulders against the night chill. They should rest, yet Malik finds energy and anxiety buzzing under his skin, irrepressible. Altaïr seems likewise restless; he sets to fussing with the fire rather than actually settling down.

Within the tent, for some minutes, is a suspended sort of quiet, as if the air itself holds its breath. Malik sets to resituating the few items sitting on his table. There’s little point to it, but it gives him some sense of purpose.

"I never knew my father," Altaïr says to his hands. He sits with his right cradling his left, both palm-up as if he's looking for meaning in their lines. "Al Mualim was the closest I had."

Damn him. With his shoulders curved in and head bowed, he looks nothing like the reckless fiend Malik knows, nothing like the shadow of death he so often wears. The flickering cast of the fire illuminates no pride in his brow, no wrath on his lips. He looks small, almost, vulnerable – and terribly, achingly, alone.

Malik leans against the tent pole and starts to cross his arms only to remember he can't. Instead his hand falls slightly to rest against his ribs like he's holding them steady or covering a wound.

"He was a hero, they say," Altaïr continues, falteringly. "I do not even know if my memories of him are true or only shades of others' words."

Despite himself, despite all Bayek's warnings and his own rage and doubt, Malik feels something in his chest collapse and give way. Some wall, forged in fire, has fallen.

Altaïr's hand folds closed over his right thumb, as if seeking some purchase, some anchor to hold. The motion seems strangely childish, like a boy holding tight to an old toy or blanket. It isn't fitting of Altaïr, of a man so steeped in years of blood. Of all people, an assassin is the last one who should be thought an innocent, and Altaïr even less than any other. He has taken too much, has ripped such wicked rents in the fabric of Malik's life as to be unforgivable. His head bows, drawing the line of his back and neck into a long, taut curve.

"Everything I have ever known is built upon another's words," he continues. "Upon Al Mualim's words."

The sigh that escapes Malik is not a conscious thing. It slips out in a long rush, and he straightens to cross over to Altaïr in two strides. He crosses his legs and settles down beside the man, enough space between them that their shoulders do not touch but close enough that the hairs on his skin stand to attention. The carpet is not so large, after all, especially with two grown men seated upon it.

"We are all taught by others," Malik says. "Before we can form our own words, others are shaping our world with theirs."

"But you are not trapped by them," Altaïr says, lifting his head to meet Malik's gaze.

His eyes are too earnest, amber turned gold by the firelight catching in his irises. Malik looks away and scoffs.

"Because not all of us are novices who never learned to think for ourselves," he retorts.

To his surprise, Altaïr does not recoil or snap back some answering insult.

He laughs.

It's a low thing, humming up from deep beneath his ribs and shaking his shoulders. His smile is rueful but honest as he looks to the fire. Though the humor fades, it lingers still in the curl of the corner of his lips and the slight creases by his eyes.

"I think..." he starts only to pause, lips pressing together. Malik is tempted to scoff at the very idea, but he restrains himself. "I think it is time I learn.”

Malik finds himself disarmed by the sincerity of his words, left without his usual rejoinders. It has been a long year since he saw Altaïr so bared, made vulnerable by his own will.

“I do not know why Al Mualim sent me to you,” Altaïr says. He looks to Malik, a gentleness in his gaze that Malik hasn’t seen before, “but I think he underestimated you.”

“What, he thought I would just kill you?” Malik scoffs.

If so, Al Mualim was closer in his estimation than makes Malik totally comfortable. The thought of such a man being able to read him that closely makes his skin crawl with something like the first roots of shame.

Altaïr doesn’t answer directly, only gives a slight shrug. He’s turned his gaze back toward the fire, the humor fading to something like thoughtfulness instead.

“I think his pride has begun to shade his eyes in recent years,” he says.

It seems strange to hear Altaïr speak of another’s pride, but Malik doesn’t refute him. In truth, the words hit a little closer to home than he expects.

"He may not be the only one," he confesses.

Altaïr looks to him, confusion in his eyes and the furrow of his brow. There's something like the start of hurt in his eyes, as if he's already prepared for Malik to turn this quiet conversation against him. Malik looks down, at his slack hand upturned in his lap.

"When Abbas came to Tajalsef, my father didn't trust him," he explains. "I didn't either – but I told myself it was only because of what he said about you. Over the years, I…excused it. Him. I was so caught up in my own anger that I failed to see what was before me."

When he glances up, there's a guardedness in Altaïr's gaze.

"What he said about me?" he asks.

Malik shrugs.

"I pissed him off once," he says, "and he said – horrible things, really, about you and what he said were rumors about his father. I didn't pay much mind to it at the time except to be upset that he was saying them about you."

As he speaks, Altaïr's gaze has dropped so that Malik can only see his profile. The firelight brings little illumination here; his expression has gone carefully blank, as if pressing down and binding away his emotions.

"Altaïr?" Malik prompts.

Altaïr's jaw works a moment before he swallows and lifts his gaze, just slightly, just to the level of the flames.

"Abbas and I were friends growing up," he explains. His voice is strangely toneless. "Perhaps my closest friend in Masyaf. Our fathers were – not friends, but close through their work for the Order. My father...he sacrificed himself on a mission to save Ahmad. Ahmad had made a mistake that cost them their cover and my father his life. He – he couldn't live with it."

He stops abruptly, as if biting down on his next words. Silence stretches in the tent for a moment, and Malik reaches out his hand to rest tentatively on Altaïr's shoulder. He doesn't know what comfort it gives, but Altaïr continues after a moment more.

"He came to me and told me what had happened," he says, and Malik's heart sinks as he realizes where this story leads, "and then he slit his own throat. I was twelve. I didn't – I—"

Altaïr breaks off, his jaw tightening till a muscle in the back of it bunches up underneath his skin. Watching him, Malik feels a painful split pierce his heart. He can't imagine. Altaïr had been quiet when they first met, but he'd assumed it was simply shyness. He'd never given hint of what he must have witnessed. Now, Malik settles his grip more firmly against Altaïr's shoulder and wills it to give comfort, no matter how many years too late.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Under his hand, Altaïr's shoulder lifts in a shrug.

"It was what it was," he says. "Death is commonplace in the Order."

"Still," Malik says.

Despite his ambivalent words, it's clear Altaïr did not – has not – brushed the incident off so easily as he would have it believed. Malik pulls his hand back to rest on his folded legs.

"After, Abbas refused to believe that his father would do such a thing," Altaïr continues. "He was furious that I would – would shame his family."

His hands have tightened in his lap, helpless fists. He looks to Malik, and there's a yearning in his eyes, a deep-seated confusion and hurt still.

"I wasn't trying to," he insists. "I would never have meant to hurt him."

Funny how that doesn't always seem to matter.

"You were a child," Malik says.

Altaïr gives a noncommittal noise at that.

"Not much of one," he says. "Not for much longer."

In some way, Malik can attest to that. They'd been young when they met, but both had been seasoned beyond their years. Malik had been training to take up the throne since the first day he could walk, and he had already served in decisions made by the military and civil councils. Even with that experience, Altaïr had seemed as if he carried a knowledge deeper and older than his years. Something about him had almost been fae-like, as if he was one of those changeling children from myths. He had seemed older than his twenty years.

"After that, Abbas hated me," Altaïr concludes. "It…does not surprise me that he would still hold that anger."

Releasing a sigh, Malik leans back on his palm.

"He always seemed so...simple," he admits. "I never expected him to be capable of deceit, certainly not of this magnitude."

Beside him, Altaïr gives a little, amused snort. When Malik looks at him, there's a smile playing at his lips. He nudges Malik's shoulder with his own, telegraphing his movements clearly as if to let Malik stop him.

"Everyone seems simple next to you, Malik," he says.

Heat rises in Malik's cheeks, though it's not from embarrassment. He scoffs and glances away, as if that will hide the way his stomach turned over at Altaïr’s words. He’s no boy falling in love again, and it’s hardly a ringing compliment. Yet the fondness in Altaïr’s amber eyes, the gentle curl of his lips around the words – it’s only bringing up old memories. That’s all. Nostalgia, of a sort.

"We should get some sleep," he says. "There are long days ahead."

Altaïr acquiesces with a hum of assent, and they separate to prepare for bed. Malik slips through the curtains into his separate chamber and sheds his djellaba to lay down on his bedroll. Staring up at the darkened ceiling, rest eludes him. After so many nights sleeping within arm's reach of each other, his own space feels too large and empty for him alone. As he lies there, he can hear the quiet noises of the camp and, closer, the soft rustle of sand and fabric as if Altaïr can't quite settle in, either. After a few more minutes of lying awake, Malik suppresses a groan and drags himself to his feet. He parts the curtain, and Altaïr visibly stills.

"You can guard me better if we're in the same room," Malik says, gruff.

It's a paltry excuse, but Altaïr offers no objection. He rises and ducks in the doorway while Malik holds back the curtain to permit him. The room is small enough that their bedrolls nearly touch, and when they've both laid back down, Malik can hear Altaïr's steady breath as if it is his own. In minutes, he is asleep.

Morning comes in slow steps. Through the canvas of the tent, the sunlight is softened, diffuse as it falls gently over them. It turns the edges of Altaïr's curls nearly gold, a honeyed shade lighter than the amber of his eyes, and brushes over the freckles barely visible over his cheekbones. Malik lays there a moment with his arm still folded under his head, his eyes drawing a languid survey of Altaïr's sleeping form.

At rest, he seems ages younger, and yet his bare skin shows a stark map of his life: scars cut through his brown skin in stripes and spots, cutting across the curve of his arms and expanse of his back. The wounds he'd borne when Malik first saw him, chained and forced to kneel, have healed but only just: they still show as pale pink puckers across his skin. Only the last thread of Malik's fraying dignity and self respect keep him from reaching out.

Rolling over, Malik folds over so that his chest nearly touches his thighs and his arm curls over his knees. Despite the softness of the morning, he feels wrung-dry. Perhaps it is the gentleness that causes it. Behind his ribs, there's a growing grief, an old hurt that has been slowly waking these last weeks. He has mourned this loss before. He had thought it healed, thought himself recovered beyond relapse. It had taken years, taken stubborn determination, but he had thought himself long past the risk of return. Only now does he realize the futility of his efforts.

He will mourn it again.

He's quiet when he rises, careful not to disturb Altaïr as he dresses. He foregoes his prosthesis for now and steps out into the dawn light. Around him, the camp is only starting to come to life. Soldiers are quiet, voices muted, as they start cooking fires and trade off with the nightwatch. Beyond them, the pale stone walls of Tajalsef rise stark and impenetrable before the dark peak of the mountain.

A cool breeze winds between the tents, the last breath of night, and it ruffles the hair at the back of his neck, fans out the tails of his robes. Breathing it in, Malik steps back inside the tent and readies himself for the day.

By mid-morning, his war council is assembled. Bayek and Hamza wear their full armor, swords at their hips and helmets braced in the opposite hand. Rauf's robes seem out of place amidst their armor, but his own equipment has been fully fleshed out along his belt and wrists. His hood lies against his shoulders, but in all other ways, he is prepared for war. Altaïr alone seems unwontedly unready: he still has only his initiate's armor and no weapon to speak of. He makes up for it with the quiet command of his squared shoulders and honed focus. Even winnowed down, he still wears Death like a second skin.

"Our rider has not returned from Queen Myrrine's court," Bayek reports. "We should know by nightfall what her answer is, but that is the quickest we might."

"Beyond that, we know little of the current situation in Tajalsef," Hamza adds. "The scouts have reported guards along the parapets, but they do not seem to patrol – they say they are simply watching, unmoving."

"No further details have been confirmed about the people within the city or if there are any who might support infiltration. Those the scouts found insist that the entire city has succumbed to some kind of enchantment and do only that which Al Mualim commands."

The table before them offers nothing useful. The map is one Malik has known since childhood, the familiar black lines demarcating Tajalsef's walls and streets and towers. He memorized it when he was young, could likely still trace it down on parchment from memory alone. Still, he stares at it as he listens as if he can glean some impossible knowledge from its familiar ink.

"We need reconnaissance," Bayek continues, "but there is no way into the citadel that the guards do not already know. If they are truly controlled as has been claimed, they will have surely turned that knowledge over to Al Mualim."

Malik's hand curls into a loose fist against the wood of the table. He remembers only glimpses of the Apple's effects; at the time, he'd been clutching Kadar's bloodied body to his and trying, desperately, to believe he could still save both of them. What he does remember defies understanding; men fighting and moving as automatons, expressionless and unfalteringly.

“An army will never make it,” Hamza says. “The citadel has stood for centuries and no one has breached its walls.”

“Not an army,” Altaïr says.

The generals turn to him, as if startled to hear him. Malik says nothing, simply waits with a growing knot of dread in his chest. He knows what Altaïr is going to say.

“I can infiltrate the citadel,” he says. “Report back what Al Mualim has planned. Clear a path.”

There’s a firm confidence in his voice, the surety of his own ability. This is what he is meant to do, the purpose for which he was raised and honed.

“You alone?” Hamza asks. “You’re only one man.”

“Better one man who can slip in unseen than an army stopped at the gate,” Bayek remarks.

Hamza cants his head in acknowledgment. He looks to Altaïr.

“You can do it?”

Altaïr nods. There’s none of the flash and conceit that Malik has grown to hate, only a slight crease in his brow from concentration and concern. His gaze is steady. Malik looks down to the table between them, the maps and figures and plans.

In his periphery, he can see Bayek watching him. Breathing out slowly and quietly, Malik lifts his gaze to find Altaïr watching him. There's no question in his gaze nor spoken aloud, but there's anticipation there – the expectation of an answer. Malik nods.

"We will need to know the extent of Al Mualim's control," he says, "and anything you can find of his plans."

Altaïr nods. Holding his gaze a moment longer, Malik forces himself to nod, to keep his expression neutral.

"Very well," he says. "You will need something other than – that."

A gesture to Altaïr's current garb turns the whole room's focus to it, as if the rest of them have only just realized how bare Altaïr looks in comparison to them.

"I have a spare set of robes," Rauf says. "We're alike enough in height, they should fit."

There's little left to settle. Hamza goes to mind the camp, and Rauf and Altaïr leave together. Only Bayek remains. Malik waits, arching an eyebrow in question.

“You trust him,” Bayek says.

It’s somewhere in between a question and statement, as if Bayek is both realizing the truth of it and trying to determine the seriousness of it.

“We have little option,” Malik says rather than answering.

“I do not mean with this task,” Bayek says, and for a horrifying moment, Malik is braced for him to make some absurd comment about Malik trusting Altaïr with his heart.

"You trust him, as a man."

Relief is a small thing next to the uncertainty burrowing into Malik's ribs.

"I do," he says. "He is not the man I thought him to be."

Bayek studies him, expression inscrutable. At last, he nods.

"Then I will trust him," he says.

He leaves to his own tasks, then, and Malik is left alone in the silence and weight. No matter his ambitions, his childhood expectations of adventure, he had never expected his life to turn to such convolution. His home is overrun with a man who claimed to be his ally, a man who can bewitch loyal soldiers and citizens alike and will smile as he asks them to slit their own throats. It is enough to weigh down any man's heart, and he has no need for further entanglements.

Of course, Altaïr has no consideration for timing. His reentry into Malik's life could not have been more inopportune, and yet, Malik is grateful for it. This will hurt him, he knows. Altaïr has no ties here. Malik believes he will fulfill his word, that he feels some bond of duty to help them secure Tajalsef, but that loyalty is not permanent. Whether they win Tajalsef back or not, Altaïr will have no cause to stay. He will return to Masyaf, fading out of Malik's life once more.

Still, Malik is glad to have had this – to have Altaïr at his side as they face this challenge together. No matter how transient, it offers some kind of resolution to a rend in his life he thought eternally unmended. Even imperfect, he thinks it is better to have it than to have gone without. Now, when they part, Malik will know that Altaïr has grown into a better man than he once was and will know that he, himself, has outgrown the bitterness and anger that so pitted and scarred him. That is a worthy enough consolation. He will accept it.

And yet.

Malik has never been a complacent man. He has never known when to settle, to cut his losses. He wants and reaches and keeps stretching out even when his hand smarts from the rebuke of wanting too much. Even as he tells himself that Altaïr's parting will be bittersweet but necessary, his heart wants more. He wants, impossibly, for Altaïr to stay here, in Tajalsef, with Malik.

Swallowing down the desire, he forces his mind to matters that can actually be influenced by his own will. No amount of wanting will change reality, will turn Altaïr from his nature. He can do nothing about that except try to curb the reckless yearning of his heart. For his army, though, for his people, he has plenty of work.

Most the afternoon is passed in preparation, in discussing with the lieutenants how stores are to be rationed out as they lay siege to their own home and with other officers regarding the status of men and supplies. When Malik is finally done for the day, his back and neck ache with the tension woven through his muscle and bone.

Rubbing at his brow, he drops into the lone seat before his table and tries to form coherent thoughts out of the white noise currently filling his brain. Footsteps sound beyond his tent, and he drops his head back, stifling a groan, before straightening up to admit whoever it is now.

Altaïr steps through.

His robes gleam softly in the lamplight. The white fabric has been carefully tended, the bracers and leather belt polished with oil. He hasn’t drawn up the hood just yet; it lays crumpled against his shoulders, and his face is unguarded. Malik swallows and turns away.

“You’ll need a sword,” he says.

Relinquishing his saber feels a strange thing, as if it has somehow grown heavier now that he is to let it go. He extends the blade to Altaïr before he can change his mind, but Altaïr does not immediately take it. His eyes widen just-so, flicking down to the sheathed blade and then up to scour Malik’s face.

“Malik—” he starts.

“You can’t go into enemy territory armed with a blade as short as a table knife,” Malik says, dismissive.

He bulls onward to keep Altaïr from having a chance to ask, to press at the meaning of the offering. He doesn’t try to tell himself it has no meaning. Even he is not that skilled a liar.

Altaïr’s hand closes slowly over the sheath, fingers brushing Malik’s palm. He holds it like a holy thing, and his hands are careful as he buckles it onto his own belt. When he looks up, there is a weight in his gaze that Malik is not quite prepared to meet.

“I will bring it back to you,” Altaïr vows.

“I should hope so,” Malik says. “I’m not giving it to you to leave in some alleyway.”

Something like a smile, ghostlike, flits over Altaïr’s lips, and he dips his head. It’s not quite a nod – his gaze has settled low, and he seems to take a steadying breath. When he looks up, the smile has disappeared, but there’s a softness in his expression, gently bruised.

“I should go,” he says.

He should. Their plan relies on subtlety, on his slipping unseen through the fortress and back out. That much will be difficult anyway, but it will be doubly so if he attempts in the light of morning. The words don’t cross Malik’s lips.

"We only need information," Malik says. "Whatever you gather will leave us better advantaged than where we are now. If you die without relaying it back to us, it will have been pointless."

His voice carries an urgency he didn't quite expect, as if the words are rising from some hidden part of himself. Altaïr watches him, too knowing.

"I will come back to you," Altaïr says. "I promise you."

"There's no need to get sentimental," Malik retorts, brusque.

Altaïr's shoulders hitch up in a silent laugh and he ducks his head. A small smile curves up his lips.

"No, I guess not," he says.

He lifts his gaze, and they hold each other's for a beat too long. The lamplit quiet between them feels suspended, stretched out in time as if by some fae hand parting the veil between worlds.

"Do not take unnecessary risks," Malik says. "That is an order from your king."

That infuriating smile still lingers in Altaïr's expression even as he reaches up to curl two fingers into his hood and flip it neatly over his head. The hood's shadow cuts a sharp 'v' down his face, dipping just above his lips.

"I am an Assassin, Malik," he replies. "We have no king."

Before Malik can offer a rejoinder, can remind Altaïr of his place here, he is gone. His footsteps fade out of hearing and Malik is left with only the sound of his own breathing, his own unsteady heartbeat, and the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all are enjoying the story so far! Kudos and comments mean the world <3


	4. From the dirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: "Carry Your Throne" by Jon Bellion (SUCH an altmal song tbh)
> 
> So I kinda got so distracted by having to write a battle scene that I forgot there was smut in this lmao anyway if you wanna skip it, skip from "Altaïr's fingers hook into the waistband..." until "When they finally fall sated, muscles trembling..."

He’s announced by the sound of shifting sand. Malik has shed his outer layers for the night, settling down not to sleep but to continue his work while he waits. He doesn’t have time to condemn himself for his restlessness, to be ashamed of his desire. He hadn’t known why he didn’t turn away Altaïr at first. He does now.

Sand slides behind him, a gritty susurrus. He turns, heart leaping up against his breastbone. Altaïr stands loose-handed just inside the tent, his gaze unwavering on Malik.

“Altaïr,” Malik says, too startled to make any other words follow.

His robes are dark with blood, his weight settled into his left hip. Concern rises like a flood in Malik and he starts forward instinctively.

“You’re injured, you should have—”

“Malik,” Altaïr says, voice firm but not ungentle. “It is not mine.”

His hands close around Malik’s wrists, warm even through his gloves. Malik’s brain takes a beat to redirect from its urgent determination of where Altaïr was likely to be hurt and how to help. His shoulders ease as the knowledge sets in.

“You were successful, then,” Malik says.

There’s little need for it: if Altaïr hadn’t succeeded, he wouldn’t have come back. That he stands before Malik now is all the proof necessary. Still, Altaïr dips his white-hooded head in a single firm nod. Malik echoes it absently.

“Good,” he says. Turning his wrist in Altaïr’s hand, he uses it to pull Altaïr back across the tent. “Then, the sooner that blood is off you, the better.”

Altaïr offers no objections, but there’s a funny cast to his expression as Malik helps him undress. His hands are almost reverent as he offers Malik’s sword back.

“I cleaned it,” Altaïr says.

Malik’s lips quirk up in quiet amusement as he takes the proffered scabbard and blade. Typical of Altaïr, to tend his weapons before himself. Still, some part of Malik is strangely touched by the gesture, by the obvious care Altaïr has extended to his sword. It feels a type of kindness, cloaked in the sharp edges of violence.

His reddened robes are draped over the trunk for a page to tend in the morning, and when he is down to only his linen undershirt, Malik draws him to sit by the wash basin and pitcher. Few words are spoken beyond an absent instruction or two. The first touch of the water to his hands sets rust-red diffusing through the basin, and Malik washes the rest off with firm strokes of the cloth. Altaïr’s hand rests loose and open under his ministrations.

“It is not like a king to wash a servant’s hands,” Altaïr remarks when Malik has turned to his left hand.

He’s still not quite used to the missing finger here, but it doesn’t seem to pain Altaïr when he touches it, so Malik forges on as if it is no different.

“It’s not like a guard to question their king’s orders, either,” he retorts.

“Perhaps you just haven’t had very good guards.”

It’s said with a little, tentative smile, a kind of hope in Altaïr’s eyes. Warmth surges up in Malik’s chest, a fondness he doesn’t try to fight. He knows he should say something, that he’s been looking back with a silly smile for far too long – and yet he can’t bring himself to move away.

It feels like gravity, inevitable, when they lean in, when Altaïr’s right hand reaches up to cradle Malik’s jaw. They’re breathing each other’s air when Altaïr pauses.

“Malik,” he says, like the start of a question.

Malik leans in and kisses the rest away. Altaïr’s lips are a little chapped, rough, but they part sweetly under Malik’s guidance. Their hands are still loosely clasped together in the muddied water.

When they part, a flush has risen high in Altaïr’s cheeks, and his lips shine in the low light. He follows when Malik leans back, newly bold.

They don’t make it to either bed. Malik lets Altaïr press him back and guides them so they fall together on the rug spread across the sand. It has been years since they last did this, and though much has changed, there’s a familiarity to the tender exploration of Altaïr’s touch.

Their shirts are cast to the side somewhere, and Malik starts tugging loose the buckles of the prosthesis. That is all the prompting Altaïr needs before taking over the endeavor himself, his hands quick and firm as they loosen each strap and gentle when they ease the prosthesis off. Malik doesn’t see where it’s set – he’s too busy pulling Altaïr back down to him.

Altaïr’s fingers hook into the waistband of Malik’s pants and draw them off, and Malik shivers in the sudden cool air against his sensitive skin. Pulling back, Altaïr lowers himself to press his lips to Malik’s neck, just over his pulse point, before continuing down. He marks a trail of gentle touch from collarbone to navel before dropping lower still. Goose bumps rush up Malik’s chest when Altaïr presses his hot mouth to the tender skin of the crease of his hip. Propping himself up, Malik settles in to watch as Altaïr slides yet lower.

He remembers this. Even then, all those years ago, Altaïr had found his pleasure in giving it. Now, Malik makes no effort to protest. Altaïr pauses, arms braced on either side of Malik’s bare thighs, and Malik arches an eyebrow.

“Getting shy now?” he taunts.

Altaïr glances up, a slow smirk curling the corner of his lips.

“You’ve grown,” he answers before sinking down.

The first touch of his mouth sends Malik’s toes curling in startled pleasure, and as he takes him fully, Malik’s fist clenches in the fabric of the rug. Altaïr draws off before leaning back down to take only the head, tongue curling around the top of the shaft. He’s had practice since the last time they did this, a thought that passes through his mind only long enough for gratitude.

He pulls Altaïr up, kissing open-mouthed and sloppy. Their chests, flush, seem to echo each other’s heartbeat, and Malik draws him close as he can. Altaïr holds Malik near, hands spread out over his skin to touch every inch he can.

There's a hunger to his touch that has Malik arching up into it, desire responding to desire. Altaïr's hand slides down the length of Malik's body, taking them both in hand, and Malik shivers at the pressure and sensation. It has been too long since he last had this with anyone. He's had other partners over the years, but rarely has he had any that lasted long. Months, at most, have been the duration of his trysts.

Now, with Altaïr, there is a knowledge there that surpasses the years between them. He responds as readily to Malik's reactions as he adjusts to opponents in battle, and when Malik opens his eyes, it is to find Altaïr watching his face closely. His pupils are blown wide, lips slightly parted, and the sight has Malik arching further into his touch as Altaïr sets a steady rhythm between them.

He comes with a soft whimper, with Altaïr's name on his lips, and Altaïr strokes him through it before coming to completion himself. He sags over Malik in the aftermath, chest resting hot and heavy against Malik's.

He props himself up on his elbows, just enough to be able to see Malik's face, and there is a kind of wonder in his expression. Something raw and gentle is opened in his eyes, and Malik pulls him back down to kiss it away. He doesn't want truths tonight, doesn't want anything but what they can give each other. It is too easy to make promises like this, wanting desperately to keep them and knowing in the light of day that they cannot.

Malik rolls them, pushes to the top, and Altaïr's hands come up to his waist to hold him tight to him. For a few minutes, they simply stay pressed there, rediscovering each other's lips and tongue and how best to incite soft moans and startled gasps from one another. Malik drops his head to mouth at Altaïr's neck, nipping the skin over his pulsepoint and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. The skin is raw and bright when he pulls away, and a low sense of satisfaction thrums up through his belly. Beneath him, Altaïr quivers with laughter, and Malik recoils.

"What?" he demands.

Altaïr's smile, when he turns it up to Malik, is only happiness. No shadows of regret cloud it, no old wounds ache beneath it. In this moment, there is only joy in his eyes.

"You are so predictable, sometimes," he says.

Malik is vaguely offended by that, but he knows it's not to the degree he should be. There's too much satisfaction running through his veins, too much delight in Altaïr's own expression. He gives an annoyed grunt and sets back to work making Altaïr forget how to say such ridiculous things.

He finds Altaïr's still sensitive at the joint of hip and chest, and Malik sets to work there, slowly working his way down the crease of his body. Already, Altaïr is stiffening beneath his ministrations, and Malik grins as he settles even lower. His breath ghosts over the head of Altaïr's cock before he sinks down, taking him in one swallow. Altaïr's breath stutters and stills, and his lips part as he curves up just enough to watch Malik set to work.

It's been a while since he last did this, but Malik is nothing if not determined. He draws off to lick a long stripe up the underside of Altaïr's cock before taking just the head between his lips again and curling his tongue around it, pressing at the slit. Altaïr's head falls back, a keening whine sounding from between his lips. His stomach is taut and quivering with strain as he strives to keep his hips from bucking into Malik's mouth.

Malik appreciates the effort, but he appreciates the view rather more. Altaïr is a long line of muscle, and stretched out like this, it is all on display. And it is all for Malik. No other could draw this out of him, no other could be granted such a view. The knowledge sends heat pooling low in his belly, sets his own cock to hardening for another round. He sinks lower again and draws back up, setting into a languid rhythm that has Altaïr's fingers curling into the fabric of the rug.

He can feel when Altaïr is close by the shaking in his legs as he tries to keep himself still and by the whiteness of his knuckles where they have trapped the rug. He likes to see this, likes to see the way Altaïr's carefully constrained control can be undone by artful administration.

"Malik," Altaïr says, a gasp. "Malik, I'm going to—"

Malik swallows him back down and presses his tongue to Altaïr's slit. He's rewarded in an instant, the hot, salty taste spurting into his mouth. He keeps it up until Altaïr is through and then draws back off to swallow it down. Altaïr shivers against the rug, body gone slack. Pleased, Malik sits up enough to use his hand to wipe against his lips before crawling back over Altaïr. That is enough for Altaïr to come back to himself in some small way, and he reaches immediately for Malik, bringing him back down to his lips.

"You are," Altaïr pants when they part.

"Yes?" Malik prompts, amused.

Altaïr's lips press together as if in frustration, brow briefly pinching together in a scowl as he searches for words. Watching him, Malik is more amused than concerned. This is a far more pleasurable way to render Altaïr speechless than their earlier verbal sparring.

He leans back in to press a kiss to Altaïr's lips, chaste and close-lipped. It's barely a peck, and when he goes to pull back, Altaïr chases him and sits up so that Malik's knees bracket his hips. One hand presses against the sand to brace them both up, but the other curls around Malik's back and spreads out against his spine. Against the night air, Altaïr is a living ember, and Malik sinks into his touch.

"My turn," Altaïr says, pushing further so that Malik is laid out on the ground with Altaïr braced over him.

Malik doesn't let him go far, shifting his legs to hook them around Altaïr's back and press him close again. His grappling instructor would likely not be pleased to see Malik using that old training in such a way, but that hardly matters when it accomplishes what Malik wanted: Altaïr pressed against him from chest to toes, their bodies nearly seamless as they melt into each other.

Altaïr's hand sinks into the sand beside Malik's head, and his other draws down Malik's side, tracing the divots and curves of his abdomen like a sculptor running their hands over unmarked clay. Malik would let him make what he willed out of him, he thinks. In this moment, he cares for nothing so much as Altaïr's touch, as his insistent kisses and gentle hands. A man so steeped in death should be anything but delicate, yet he holds Malik like he would not let him go for anything short of the end of the world. The night could draw on for eons and he thinks they would not lose breath, would not grow weary or fall into tedium. It's intoxicating, to be held with such tenderness, such affection.

When they finally fall stated, muscles trembling with fatigue and strain, they are both slick with sweat and heavy-lidded with weariness. Malik rolls onto his side and reaches out, hand coming to rest on the junction of Altaïr's neck and chest. Altaïr watches him with a lazy smile playing on his lips and warm fondness in his eyes.

"I've missed you," he says, unprompted.

Malik snorts, his thumb running a gentle stroke down the muscles of Altaïr's neck. He can feel the vibrations of his voice like this, the gentle rise of his breath.

"Only my body, I see," he retorts.

"That, too," Altaïr says, grinning.

The expression is nearly boyish, all carefree amusement and happiness. The sex has apparently left him addled, Malik thinks. He can't imagine any other cause that would draw out such loose happiness in Altaïr. He's never been relaxed, never been someone given to openness of any sort. But here, now, he lays bared for Malik as if he has taken every guard down and discarded it.

"I've missed you, too," Malik admits, reluctantly. "Occasionally."

Altaïr's grin softens into a sweet smile that is too soft, too intimate by far. Malik can find little energy to protest, though. His body is heavy with contented weariness, as if he has had his fill and could not take anymore. He thinks that much might be true.

His hand slips down to trail across Altaïr's chest and belly, coming to rest against the puckered scar just above his navel. It's turned the bright pink of the newly healed, the stitches removed some time in the intervening weeks. Against his calloused fingertip, the skin is strangely smooth.

Altaïr gently lifts his hand and pulls it up to press a kiss to his knuckles. It's fondness as much as a soft boundary; this, then, is something still fresh, not quite as healed as the scar suggests. Malik lets their hands rest between them on the rug. Perhaps someday Altaïr will tell him where it came from. Perhaps not. For now, he is in no hurry to find out what their future holds. This moment, this tender comfort, is enough.

"Come on," he says, pulling himself upright. "We should wash ourselves."

Altaïr wrinkles his nose, but he doesn't protest and doesn't pull Malik back down to him. He fetches the basin and pitcher and brings it back to the rug. This time, Altaïr sets to cleaning Malik, washing him down with gentle strokes. Despite the intimacy of the touch, Malik feels no quickening, no stirring for another round. He is unwontedly content, satisfaction settling throughout his body in a wholly unfamiliar way.

When they've both washed, Malik draws Altaïr back to his chamber. They do not separate to their own bedrolls this time but push them together and tangle together in a loose knot of limbs, each reluctant to let the other go.

Altaïr wraps his arms around Malik and pulls him close to his chest, near enough that he could nearly tuck Malik's head under his chin. His gaze rests on Malik's face, invisible but not unfelt.

"I never told you what I saw," he says.

Malik yawns and nestles closer.

"There will be time enough for that in the morning, with the others," he says. "We do not need to speak of war here."

Altaïr hums, a vibration that thrums up from his ribs and through Malik's arm where it's draped over his side. Closing his eyes, Malik lets himself settle into the warm night and sleep. Altaïr's hand traces indiscernible patterns over his back, riddles of movement against his skin.

In the morning, they have shifted positions, but not so far as to be removed from each other. Altaïr’s stretched out on his stomach, one arm still tight around Malik’s waist. Malik, curled on his side, is pressed close enough that his eyelashes brush Altaïr’s skin when he blinks. Altaïr makes a quiet noise and shifts so that he’s facing Malik. A slow smile pulls up the corners of his lips as he looks at him.

“Good morning,” he greets.

Malik could get used to this, he realizes. It’s dangerously alluring. The idea of waking to Altaïr pressed close, to seeing his gentle eyes trace over Malik’s face with unbearable affection – it could wreck Malik if he lets it.

“We should get ready,” he says. His voice comes out a little hoarse, scratchy from sleep. “The scouts could have returned in the night.”

There’s confusion in his gaze, but Altaïr doesn’t question him. He only rises as directed and sets to readying himself for the day. He does not return to his plain armor but pulls back on his white robes. Dried blood stains the thick fabric after setting all night, and Altaïr eyes it in distaste.

They walk together to the cook fire where Bayek sits. It’s early yet and most the camp still sleeps. Grey-blue smoke curls in tendrils and plumes up from the fire, diffusing into nothingness a few feet off the ground. Bayek greets them each with a respectful nod.

“The outrider has not returned?” Malik asks.

He sits down beside Bayek, with Altaïr on his other side. Bayek shakes his head. Both his hands are curled around a clay mug of tea. Steam rolls off it in a mirror of the fire’s smoke.

Malik hums and accepts a bowl from the cook. The porridge is thin and pale, likely stretched to make the most of their stores in case this turns to a drawn-out siege. Altaïr gives no sign of noticing; he spoons the gruel down almost mechanically, as if he does not even taste it.

“And you?” Bayek asks, looking to Altaïr.

Swallowing, Altaïr looks to Malik, as if awaiting permission. Malik nods. Turning his gaze to Bayek, Altaïr lowers the bowl and holds it cradled in both hands.

“I found where Al Mualim is keeping the Apple,” he says. “The watch is under his control; they move in the same pattern and leave the same gaps.”

“Enough for how many to slip through at a time?” Bayek asks.

Altaïr cants his head, gaze turning sharper as he considers. His lips thin, and he turns back to Bayek with a slight shake of his head.

“Three would be a hazard,” he says.

Any information is good information, but the picture Altaïr paints is uninspiring. Stealing three-by-three into the citadel will take them hours – far too long for any kind of coordinated attack – and once they are on the other side, they will be faced with countrymen and kin, bespelled by Al Mualim and deadlier for it. With a sinking feeling, Malik realizes that any victory here will be pyrrhic.

“Riders! My lord, my lord! Riders come this way!”

The trio turns in a sharp jerk. A single watchman runs towards them, booted feet slipping in the sand, and breath nearly lost between the exertion and his calls. He stumbles to a halt before them as they stand, hands falling to swords.

“My lord,” the guard pants. “A great company of riders comes this way. They bear no standard, but they run for us as an arrow from a giant’s bow.”

“Then we will meet them,” Malik says. “Ready what men are able. Do not break the guard – this could be a diversion to let them flank us.”

The guard bows and hastens off to follow his commands. Swallowing down his fear, Malik draws his sword and leads the way to meet these fearsome guests.

They crest a dune and halt. Out on the sand, they can see the riders. As the guard said, the company seems innumerable, thousands of horses stretching out serpentine across the sands. They ride at a hard run, approaching quickly enough that the companies won’t have assembled in time for their arrival. Malik braces himself. At his sides, Bayek has drawn his bow and set an arrow to the string, and Altaïr has unsheathed the broad shortsword from his low back. He spares a moment to think that this is not such poor company to greet Death among after all.

Then, the riders are upon them.

They pull up just before the trio, cantering to a halt that has their horses tossing their heads and prancing in place. Malik knows them. He stares, swordtip dipping toward the sand in shock.

“Good morning, Malik. We heard you could use a friend,” Kassandra greets.

She grins, as light and easy as if this were only a hunt or round of drinks. Despite her carefree greeting, she wears heavy armor and full equipment as if for war. Behind her are two men Malik knows well. Ezio gives a bright grin and one-handed wave while Ratonhnhaké:ton gives a somber nod.

“You made remarkable time,” Malik says slowly. “We only expected our scout to return from your mother’s lands today.”

Kassandra swings down from her horse, landing with a thud in the sand.

“He rides among us as well,” she says, “but we met him on the road already. There is magic yet in these lands, and the city knows her friends.”

“We were sent dreams,” Ratonhnhaké:ton says. “A white eagle with talons dipped in blood.”

“It was not a dream I care to have again,” Ezio laughs, “so I set out as quickly as possible and came upon Ratohnhnaké:ton along the way. We met Kassandra just yesterday with your scout already among her riders.”

The gravity of their words settles into Malik slowly and then all at once, till he nearly feels he’ll sway with it. A creeping tendril of shame crawls up his neck that he had so misjudged his allies – friends – but they do not have the time for that kind of apology. Actions are the better courier of change.

“I did not hope to look for such aid, nor so quickly,” he says. “Please, come and let us speak.”

There’s little hospitality to be had in a siege camp, but they make do with a fire and mugs of tea. The newcomers wave off further provisions, having already broken their fast together before they arrived and having come well-equipped with their own stores. When they have shared what little they know, they fall into a more comfortable conversation. Malik himself remains a little removed from the talk, still trying to reorganize and strategize with this sudden wealth of resources and news. In truth, he’s overwhelmed by the readiness with which they have come to his aid, the sincerity in their expressions of friendship and loyalty.

“So you are Altaïr?” Kassandra asks. “I’ve heard of you.”

“And I you, Eagle Bearer,” Altaïr replies.

His expression and tone is neutral enough, but it is the most awed Malik has ever seen Altaïr. He looks to Kassandra with something approaching reverence, though it is well-guarded to those who do not know him well. Malik hides his smile in the lip of his mug as Kassandra tilts back her head in laughter.

“Perhaps I will carry you before this is all through and doubly earn that title,” she jokes. “You are the famed Eagle of Masyaf, aren’t you?”

“The very same,” Ezio pipes in. “During my seasons there, his name echoed about the citadel as if the wind itself carried it.”

“I have read of your exploits as well,” Ratonhnhaké:ton adds. “From their number, I had expected a man far beyond your years.”

In the face of their praise, Altaïr turns newly shy. If his hood weren’t already up, Malik is certain he would now draw it over his head. As it is, he only barely keeps from squirming before their words, and his hands tighten around his mug.

“I didn’t know you were acquainted, Malik,” Ezio admits, turning now to him. “Though to see you both together, it seems you must have shared in the same season.”

Altaïr’s shoulders hitch up, just-so, under his robe, and Malik can guess what memories Ezio’s words conjure. The time Malik spent in Masyaf was near in Altaïr’s own training; that was why they had been sent on that ill-fated mission together, why they had been bound together in the disaster that ripped away Kadar and Malik’s arm and granted Al Mualim the Apple he now uses to hold sway over Tajalsef.

“Altaïr is an old friend,” Malik says. His gaze rests fondly on Altaïr even as the other man seems to startle at the words. “I have known him many years, long before my season in Masyaf.”

Ezio looks between the two of them, curiosity entering his brown eyes, but he does not press the matter. Despite his levity, there is a shrewdness to him that belies his years. One corner of his lips pull up in a quiet smile.

“Fortune favors you both to have brought you here together,” Ratonhnhaké:ton says.

Where Ezio tends toward laughter and grand tales, he has always been more solemn and reserved. Younger than either Malik or Ezio, Malik has never known Ratonhnhaké:ton well, but he knows that he suffered great tragedy when he was young. His people have been nomadic for some years, refugees from a barbarian tribe that ravaged their country and stole their homes.

“And to victory now, we can hope,” Kassandra adds.

“Then we might be better off discussing how we gain it than our personal histories,” Malik remarks, dry.

With light laughter, they rise and together remove themselves to Malik’s tent. Seven of them together make a tight fit around the table, standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. Altaïr steps back just enough so that he hovers behind Malik’s shoulder, close enough that Malik can feel his presence but just out of sight.

“Al Mualim has taken control of the citadel using an artifact called the Apple,” Malik explains. The others watch him, somber and intent. “It grants him consummate control over the soldiers in the citadel such that they do not know their own minds.”

“What kind of magic does that?” Ezio asks.

Kassandra’s brow has furrowed into a tight frown, her thick arms crossed over her chest and gaze resting low on the table.

“It comes from an ancient civilization,” Malik explains. “I have seen it in use only once and know little beyond the effects I could see.”

He hates admitting such ignorance in the face of battle, but to do less would only set further obstacles in their path. His allies deserve honesty.

“It bends one’s mind to his will. To see what he wills and to do as he orders.”

Altaïr’s voice comes from just behind him, and yet it seems softer than usual. The table turns to him as one; Kassandra and Hamza’s eyebrows have lifted while the others frown. Malik turns to open up the circle so that Altaïr is part of their group rather than tucked behind them. He does not move to enter the opening, though, and his gaze rests heavy on the table between them.

“Before I was sent here – I” – he stops, swallows – “Al Mualim used it to punish me. He made me believe I had died.”

Listening to him, Malik can’t help but think back to when Altaïr first arrived, the wounds scoring his body. The one in his low belly had been a killing blow, deep enough to sever the great arteries running through the torso. Fear creeps up Malik’s nape. If this Apple were to lend Al Mualim the authority to manipulate death, what else could it do? What little could it not? No man is meant to be master of such things, to hold sway over such absolutes.

“If he holds such control, how are we to break through it?” Ezio asks.

The same question needles the back of Malik’s mind and no doubt, the others’ as well. The better he can see their position, the worse it appears.

“No control is absolute,” Ratonhnhaké:ton says. “He must have a weakness.”

As optimistic as his words seem in the face of their challenges, it is also pragmatic. Al Mualim would have the world believe him a god and accept defeat without offering challenge. They cannot afford to do that.

“If the Apple is removed, then Al Mualim is only a man, no?” Ezio asks.

Malik inclines his head in affirmation. He had the same thought Ezio now follows, but the fruits of its path have not been as rewarding as he’d like. Rauf looks pensive.

“One man, yes – but even without this witchcraft, Al Mualim is cunning, and he is sure to have sycophants at his bidding, ensuring his will is followed,” he cautions.

Malik thinks immediately of Abbas, of all those years he almost thought them friends. Looking back now, he can see it for the lie it was, Al Mualim’s artful manipulations weaving blindfolds over their eyes.

“One man controlling all of this must take great concentration,” Kassandra remarks.

She still frowns down at the table, and her words come a bit slower than usual, thoughtful.

“You have an idea?” Malik prompts.

“I might,” she says. Releasing her arms, she looks up to meet his gaze. “Our forces combined are likely not enough to take Tajalsef, not when your soldiers will be fighting against their own kin and brethren. But taking force alone into account, it is a near thing.”

“Near enough to get Al Mualim’s attention,” Bayek says, catching on.

He and Hamza have mostly stood silent and attentive throughout, watching the newcomers closely. Malik isn’t sure whether the generals don’t trust the newcomers or if they have heard the great tales of each of them and are in quiet awe; he hasn’t had much time to wonder, and their expressions give nothing away.

“Exactly,” Kassandra says.

“So the armies serve as a distraction while a smaller force infiltrates the citadel to find Al Mualim,” Rauf surmises.

It makes sense. Tajalsef was built to withstand charges and sieges, its walls and gates laced with the kind of spellwork that in the ancient years took eclipses and dragons’ blood. A frontal assault even now would be risky – but not so much as to seem unreasonable. If an army marches toward the citadel with full intent of taking the city, Al Mualim will have to respond in some measure. It might create enough of a gap for them to slip in for their real target.

“But who will go after Al Mualim?” Ezio asks. “Even distracted, he will still be a formidable opponent, and he could always hide deep within the city, directing his forces from some secret hole.”

Even as he asks, Malik knows who it will be – who it must be.

“I will go.” Altaïr pauses, gaze flicking to Malik before turning back to the table at large. “With your leave. I have trained under Al Mualim all my life. I know his ways, and I am the only one who has experienced the Apple before. I have the best chance of withstanding it.”

“And how will you find him if he hides?” Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.

Altaïr blinks. When he opens his eyes, they glow. Even now, years since the first time he saw this, Malik feels some strange tremor run down his spine at the molten gleam of his eyes. There is no mistaking it for a stray sunbeam or some trick of the light. Altaïr blinks the glow away, but the silence left behind is palpable.

“My Sight is not hindered by walls,” he explains.

Ezio’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline, and at the far end of the table, Hamza looks as if he has lost some use of his mind as he stares, half-gaping, at Altaïr.

“I did not know the fae still walked, much less among us,” Ezio says slowly.

“I am not fae,” Altaïr says, short. “It isn’t magic.”

Across from him, Kassandra gives a noncommittal hum that supports neither side but is enough to draw both men’s attention away from each other. Malik is grateful for it. He’d made nearly the same remark the first time Altaïr showed him his gift, and he remembered well how testily he had responded to it even then. Despite his constant efforts to separate himself from others through his superior skill or rank, Altaïr has never liked being alone in the end.

“When this is over, you might speak to my mater,” Kassandra says. “I think you may have a fruitful conversation.”

That has eyebrows rising around the table, except for Altaïr’s newly furrowed brow. Malik heads it off before they can be further distracted. If they survive this, they can bring the topic up then.

“Then it is settled,” he says. “Altaïr will infiltrate the fortress while we attack the front gate.”

“How are your companies?” Malik asks.

Kassandra gives a one-shouldered shrug.

“Give them an hour, and we will be ready to ride once more,” she says.

“Today’s journey was not so long,” Ezio adds in support.

Malik nods. If they’d needed to wait till morning, he wouldn’t have protested: Al Mualim surely already knows of the companies’ arrival, and whatever hope they might have had at the advantage of surprise is squandered. Still, his hands itch with the need for action, the need to finally do something about this. The sooner they start, the sooner they will know whether there is any hope left at all.

“Whatever provisions you need, you will be given,” Malik assures. “For now, rest and prepare and we will convene in two hours to begin the assault.”

Though they are rulers in their own right, the three of them accept the dismissal graciously and file out of the tent without complaint. Malik turns to his own generals.

“Ready the companies,” he says. “We will need the full force of rams and ladders where we have them. Send two riders into the outer village to see what supplies and support can be garnered.”

Hamza and Bayek each bow in acknowledgment, but while Hamza ducks out the tent the way the others did, Bayek lingers.

“My lord,” he asks, “what of the citizens? If they are under Al Mualim’s enchantment, they will not falter at the sight of their kin.”

The same thought already hounds the dark edges of Malik’s mind. What greater nightmare than to see your family and friends advancing on you, eyes blank without recognition and hands laden with weapons of death. In some morbid way, Malik supposes he should be grateful he has no family left to be turned against him.

“We will have to warn the armies, but there is little that can be done,” he says. “Where possible, we will strive to incapacitate, not to kill or maim. The soldiers still must be warned that their brethren will not be so merciful.”

It’s a poor answer, he knows. In the heat of battle, a soldier’s objective must be to stay alive and to win. There’s little space for value judgments, for calculating whether a blow will kill or only render unconscious. In the face of their dear ones, the soldiers will be infinitely more likely to hesitate, to second guess themselves and make poorer judgments for it. They have no guard that can protect against this disadvantage.

Bayek concedes with an inclination of his head and follows the others out. In their absence, suddenly, Malik feels the weight of this decision slump heavy over his shoulders, corpse-like. Bravery is well and good in victory, but what if he is only leading them all to death? There are times when defeat is not a question but an absolute.

Altaïr settles his hand on Malik’s shoulder, fingertips just brushing the divot of his spine. He doesn’t speak but gives a gentle squeeze. Releasing a breath, Malik leans over to press his palms flat against the wood and stare down at the maps still before him. It all looks so orderly like this, every battalion and building demarcated by its proper unit and model. In real life, no battle is so tidy.

“What if we fail?” he asks the little figures.

It’s less that he expects or even wants an answer as much as he needs to release the pressure of this fear building up behind his chest. If he keeps it trapped inside, he’s certain he will suffocate beneath its weight.

“Then we will not be alive to regret it,” Altaïr replies evenly. Malik shoots him a sharp look, unamused, and Altaïr gives his shoulder another little squeeze and offers a small smile. “I do not think we will fail. You are a wise leader, your men loyal, and your allies renowned. No lesser force could take Al Mualim from such a seat, but I believe we may be enough.”

Though his assessment is perhaps more honest that Malik would have liked to hear, he thinks it’s what he needed to hear. Altaïr knows better than most the arithmetic of death, and if he has totaled it out in their favor, Malik will trust in him. For a beat, he simply lets himself meet Altaïr’s gaze and read the assurance he finds therein.

Altaïr reaches over, gently tilts Malik’s chin, and presses a soft kiss to his lips. Closing his eyes, Malik smiles into it. How silly, how inane, to find such sweetness in the midst of tragedy. Of course they would find their way to back to each other at the end of their worlds.

“Now, what work is left?” Altaïr says when they’ve parted and his hand has slipped down to curl around the back of Malik’s neck. “Our hands may make lighter work of it together.”

A smile curls up Malik’s lips at the offer, and he reaches up to press a quick peck to Altaïr’s lips in thanks before he starts outlining the tasks necessary in the last hours of war.

They wind up separating halfway through the preparations, divvying up the remaining tasks to ensure they are completed as efficiently as possible. To Malik falls the duty of speaking with his officers and soldiers of the risks inherent in this attack. It’s a hateful job to bring such ill tidings before the men he is asking to ride unfailingly into death. Still, his soldiers take the news with grim, set faces. Though they may balk when the time comes, they are committed now. It is all he can ask.

When at last he is done and has returned to his tent after speaking one last time with Bayek and Hamza, Malik finally sets to preparing himself. A page comes to help him for the first time in weeks, Altaïr being occupied, and it is short work before he is dressed in full armor. His helmet waits on his desk, the last piece he will put on. Even without it, the whole set feels a familiar weight. It has been weeks since he last wore it, but it has only been weeks. Too soon, it seems, to take up this mantle once more.

After the page is dismissed, Malik draws his saber and rolls his wrist with it a few times, experimental. True to his word, Altaïr appears to have polished off every last drip of blood, and the metal gleams in the diffuse sunlight. The edge is sharp as ever, no new nick or gouge marring the silver surface. As the tent flap reopens, Malik sheathes his sword and turns square-shouldered to greet them.

Altaïr stands just inside the tent, gaze falling heavy on Malik. He hesitates. His hood lays crumpled against his shoulders, and he's folded one hand over the other, thumb pressing into his palm. His gaze traces over the armor and weapons Malik wears, and he drops his hands before taking a tentative step forward.

Malik meets him halfway, and Altaïr's hand settles on his hip, drawing him close. They settle together, foreheads touching and breath mingling in the warm space between them. Malik closes his eyes and tries to commit this to memory, the stubble of Altaïr's jaw against his hand, the weight of his hand against his side, the soft sound of his breath. If this is the last good thing in his life, he doesn't want to cut it short.

They part eventually out of necessity; the war will not wait for them to have had enough time, and Al Mualim will not relinquish Tajalsef out of courtesy. There are greater matters at hand than their meager wants.

They separate just shy of the citadel. Altaïr slips down from his horse’s back and pauses, hand still holding the reins even as his gaze rises to the impenetrable stone walls only a quarter mile ahead of them. A page waits just shy of him, watching as if they can guess the moment when he’ll be done with his horse. Malik waits, a knot tightening in his chest. Words tangle together, roping around each other like a spool of thread set free down a set of stairs. He can’t straighten them out, can’t order them into the sentences he wants to say.

At last, Altaïr hands off the reins and turns to Malik.

“Safety and peace, Malik,” he says.

The knot tightens, nearly choking.

“Your presence here will deliver us both,” Malik answers.

It isn’t what he meant to say, isn’t what he wanted – but the corner of Altaïr’s lips twitch up in a smile. He turns away and disappears quickly into the village beyond. Malik watches him go, tries to guess the path over rooftops and down alleys he’ll take. With a final beat of his heart, he turns to the front. He cannot follow Altaïr, not this time. But he can try to help him along the way.

The assembled armies make a force to be reckoned with, and falling in line beside the other commanders gives Malik some comfort. Though he didn’t train side by side with Ezio or Ratonhnhaké:ton, he has heard and seen enough to know their mettle. Kassandra alone could raze an army, and his own generals have proven their valor time and time again. He could not ask for better company to go to war.

The sun beats down, sweltering, by the time they’ve reached the outer walls. Along the parapets, motionless, Malik can see guards posted like silent pillars. They do not move, and the distance makes them shadowed and featureless. Unease crawls up the back of Malik’s neck.

Altaïr should be nearing the city by now, coming up on the gap he’d found last night. They can’t let Al Mualim find him, can’t let his spies spot Altaïr and ruin this plan before it’s even begun.

They stop before the gate, a bristling line of spears and bows. A suspended stillness stretches taut between the army and the motionless citadel. The guards along the wall show no reaction, do not budge out of their formation. Malik watches, waits. It seems the whole desert holds its breath – no birds wheel overhead, no horses stamp or whinny. There’s a kind of electricity in the air, a sub-dermal vibration that seems to emanate from the earth itself. Malik has never felt anything of the sort. It hums under his skin with a strange energy.

“Al Mualim, come out and face us!” Malik calls.

He knows better than to think Al Mualim that much of a fool, but it’s worth a shot. They need to draw his attention somehow, and so far it isn’t clear that lining up at his doorstep with the armies of four nations is enough to do it.

There’s movement atop the parapets, though Malik can’t quite pick out what’s happening. The guards seem to be tensing, as if they’re listening to something far longer than his shout.

“You have claimed what is not yours,” Malik calls. “You hold this city by cruel witchcraft and not by right.”

That energy vibrates into a tighter coil at the base of his spine. It steadies him, surges like invisible reassurance up through him.

One of the guards takes a single step closer to the parapet, so that their chest and face are fully visible over the wall. They’d make an easy target if it weren’t for the blankness to their stare, the way they don’t seem to see the armies at all as they speak in a voice that is not their own.

“Al Mualim has taken this fortress by right of power,” they say. “Bow to his wisdom. You cannot defeat him.”

Anger, fury, courses through Malik, tightening his fists and turning his vision white. There was no right in commandeering men’s minds, in turning them from their own will to be used like puppets. Even in conquest, even under poor kings and false idols, the right to choose whether to bend the knee or fight back was inviolable. For Al Mualim to break that and then claim it as justification for his assault – outrage is a living fire deep beneath his ribs.

Around him, the air tightens and quivers. There’s a pressure suddenly about them that wasn’t there before, and before his unbelieving eyes, Malik watches as old runes along the castles, weather-worn, shimmer with an uncanny gold. It is the exact shade of Altaïr’s eyes, the honey-bright color of his Sight – of magic. With a great crack, the city shakes and the gates swing open.

For a moment, no one moves. The great gates of Tajalsef, the unbreakable doors, are spread wide as to welcome home a king. No one along the parapets has moved. Still, the gold runes glimmer on like fairy dust over the ancient stone.

All at once, chaos breaks out. The guards along the parapet fly into motion, and before they can close the gates, Malik has given the order to charge. As one, the armies flood into the city.

The first meters of their path are almost too easy: the streets are empty, neither soldiers nor civilians to stand in their way. They rush forward, the swell of victory pressing their horses forward along the stone streets. Then, the guards descend.

They do not fight like men, do not falter or hesitate to think or duck. They fall upon the armies like locusts, like living nightmares. Their weapons are real enough, though: before any of Malik’s soldiers have raised their arms, Al Mualim’s automatons have cut down three.

“Guard yourselves!” Malik yells. “They will show no mercy!”

The call is taken up first by Kassandra and the others and then spread further afield among the commanders directing their men. Malik loses track of it in his own fight for survival. None of Al Mualim’s puppets show any hesitation at striking down their own king. He is pulled from his horse at the foot of the castle, has to swing out with saber and shield with less concern for caution than he’d like.

The heat of battle separates the commanders. Malik knew it would happen. It was part of the plan after all. War has little consideration for order. Still, alarm courses like lightning through his veins when he looks up and cannot find a familiar face anywhere in sight. A hewing axe strike cuts short his worry; he can only push forward, try to force his way through with as few casualties as possible.

Around him, his soldiers and the others do the same. Fighting their own instincts, years of training, in order to do as little harm to their attackers is no easy thing; the soldiers of Tajalsef share no such compunction, and their blows are meant to kill.

By the time he reaches the inner keep, blood is running down Malik’s leg and his shoulder aches from the force of the blows he’s blocked. A step down the hall to the throne room, the battle seems suddenly distant and muted. He can still hear it, but it’s muffled. A voice from ahead comes far clearer. He follows.

" —Altaïr. Have I ever led you astray? Have I ever guided you ill? You have been as a son to me. Listen to me now, forego this foolishness and return to my side."

Al Mualim's voice is clear from the hallway outside the room, and his tone sets Malik's hair on end. He speaks gently, soothingly, like a parent talking down a wayward child. Come back to me, his tone says even more than his words. I know what's best for you. Trust me. Golden light spills out of the doorway, just shy of blinding.

Fear twists Malik's stomach as he creeps closer to the doorway. Al Mualim is the only father Altaïr has; Altaïr said it himself, that he was raised under the shadow of the old man's wing. What if this is the one thing they did not plan for? If being welcomed back into the fold is what it takes to bend Altaïr's mind to Al Mualim's manipulations? Altaïr in his own right is a reckoning force. Without his own mind, without pause for doubt or familiarity, he could bring ruin to nations. An Altaïr under Al Mualim's bewitchment is a nightmare Malik does not know they could withstand. He hastens onward even as doubt drags down his heart.

"A father does not kill his son."

Malik's feet still a strideslength from the door. Altaïr's voice is quieter than Al Mualim's, but there is a firmness there that demands it be heeded.

"A father does not ban his children from attachments and bar them from the world," Altaïr continues, gathering strength. "You have not raised us as your children but trained us as weapons for your own glory, your own selfish aims."

Reaching the door, Malik shades his eyes with his left arm, but the light is unbearable. It stabs like shards of stars, searing into his eyes until he is blinded by it.

"You cannot kill me, Altaïr. You are nothing without me!"

"Better nothing than your weapon."

There's a soft thud, a gasp. The light vanishes. Malik is left blinking into sudden darkness, green and red bars still seared into his vision. He can make out a dark shape to his left, a small round light. He stumbles in that direction, clutching tight to sword and hope. The noises of the battle outside have suddenly quieted, as if all the soldiers have suddenly stopped. Hope flutters uncertain wings deep within his chest. Let it be done, his heart begs. Let it be over at last.

His eyes adjust as he crosses the room till Altaïr is fully formed before him. He's crouched down, shoulders and head bowed, and Malik makes out the dark body laying crumpled before him. His steps slow out of respect for Altaïr's grief more than Al Mualim himself. No matter what he said as they were planning this, this was no easy thing that Altaïr has done. Malik's chest gives a tight squeeze of sorrow. He wouldn't wish this burden on anyone. 

“Altaïr,” Malik calls.

Relief nearly makes him stumble as he steps forward, reaching out already for Altaïr. Altaïr wavers as he turns, his foot skidding a little against the stone. New concern brushes against the back of Malik’s neck.

“Altaïr?” he asks.

“Malik,” Altaïr answers and takes a step forward, towards him.

There is so much blood. It seeps through his robes, through rents in his chest and arms. One hand clutches at his side, fingers stained scarlet, but the other stretches out for Malik. Malik steps forward, quick strides carrying him to Altaïr. Before he quite gets there, Altaïr stumbles and his legs quiver before, all at once, giving out. His weight falls heavy into Malik’s arms, enough to nearly set him staggering.

“Altaïr,” he says. “Altaïr, stay with me.”

He clutches at his arm, digging his fingers in to both hold Altaïr up and to try, desperately, to rouse him. Altaïr’s body slumps forward into him, head coming to a lolling rest against Malik’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go! Hope y'all are enjoying it so far and honestly thank you so much for reading and taking the time to leave kudos/comments - absolutely the best treat!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: "Still Falling for You" by Ellie Goulding bc lbr we all know this is just Sappy Epilogue Time with a side of mutual pining bc they're still idiots

Kings don’t linger. They certainly don’t fidget – or pace outside a servant’s chambers, half-dressed, as if their impatient strides might accelerate the physician’s work.

And yet.

Kassandra had found them shortly after Altaïr’s collapse, and between the two of them, they’d hauled Altaïr’s limp body up the stairs to the infirmary. They’d gathered more hands along the way; it seemed every soldier had a sudden need to help support him, to ease the burden of his half-dead weight. For a moment, when the physician had shut the door and left them to stand empty handed before his uncertain fate, Malik had wished Altaïr had been awake to see all these people reaching out for him, these half-strangers made loyal and dear to him.

He’d been shepherded to the infirmary himself but not into the surgery. Instead, a nurse had looked over his own wounds and tended them and suggested he get some rest. Since then, he’s been here – pacing, mostly, but occasionally dropping onto the nearby bench to stare at the door, willing it to open. As the king, he could have ordered them to open it – could have marched in and no one would have the rank to refuse him – but he’d feared the consequences, feared the physicians being distracted by his presence and making some fatal error. So he’d waited.

It’s nearly dawn when the door finally opens. Grey light has just begun to shine through the windows, casting long pale shadows, and Malik’s eyes are gritty with lack of sleep. He rubs at them one-handed.

When the hinges creak, he nearly startles himself off his seat, jolting upright as if shot through with lightning. There’s no salvaging his dignity, but the physician hardly seems to notice his bedraggled state. They wear dark circles like shadows under their eyes and deep lines around their mouth, as if from frowning.

“He is awake if you would like to see him, my king,” they offer.

He doesn’t run, but he doesn’t pretend at indifference either. Half the citadel likely knows how he’s worried by now, and he can’t be bothered to mind. It is good to care again, good to have hope again – no matter how desperate and terrified. If this is all he is left when Altaïr has gone once more, it will be good to be alive once more, reanimated as if from years of stupor.

Inside, Altaïr is propped up in the bed by pillows, and bandages cover half his chest. He still looks too pale, but he’s not half so sallow as he was last night when he fell bloodied into Malik’s arms. The window behind him illuminates his hair in a soft halo as he offers Malik a thin smile.

The physician leaves them alone together. In the solitude, Malik perches on the edge of the chair near Altaïr’s bed. Suddenly, he’s almost nervous. Altaïr looks so tired, bruises dark along his jaw and over his chest. In the light of the morning, surrounded by the great stone walls of the citadel, all their time in the camp seems distant. Altaïr had said he would return to Masyaf at the end of their journey, and he had never turned back on that word. Why would he now? What was one night together, a few conversations, in the face of a lifetime of blood-won loyalty?

“Good morning,” Altaïr greets.

His voice comes out hoarse, rasping, as if long disused. He winces, and Malik’s hand curls in useless distress. There is no one here to fight. Even when there was, he hadn’t been able to protect Altaïr.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Like I fought thirty men,” Altaïr replies.

A smile quirks up his lips, teasing. The first hint of relief unfurls in Malik’s chest.

“Think you’ve learned your lesson?” he asks.

Altaïr scrunches his nose and leans back against his pillows.

“Which one?”

Malik snorts and relaxes a little. Despite his injuries, Altaïr seems in a better mood than he had expected. Perhaps it’s only the fatigue keeping him from dwelling on the events of yesterday, but Malik will take it.

“It is good to see you awake,” he says.

“Were you worried about me, Malik?” Altaïr asks, teasing.

His head’s leaned back against his pillow now, and he rolls it to the side to give Malik a teasing smirk. Shadows still linger beneath his eyes, but there’s a brightness that sings of vitality.

“Well, good guards are hard to come by,” Malik says, dismissive.

Altaïr’s shoulders shake in silent laughter. Malik pauses, loath to disrupt the easiness with graver topics.

“I – I wanted to thank you, Altaïr,” he says. “I know what you did yesterday was no easy sacrifice.”

The smile slips off Altaïr’s lips, and his gaze slides to the front, gone a little distant. His mouth tightens, a thin line. There’s no anger or offense in his expression, though. It seems rather like he’s shed a façade he’s been wearing since Malik entered the room. Weariness sags through him more clearly than it did a moment ago.

“No,” he admits, “but I think it was necessary. Now or years hence. Al Mualim had become…corrupted, I think, by his own greed. It had been happening for years, but I refused to see it. I did not want to see it.”

There’s little pity in his voice, only a heartbreaking kind of honesty. On impulse, Malik reaches out and covers Altaïr’s near hand with his own, light enough to pull it away the moment it appears unwelcome. Instead, Altaïr turns over his hand and laces their fingers together, holding tight. When he looks to Malik, his smile has not returned.

“I did not do it for you,” he says. Malik stills, startled. “Not that there is much I wouldn’t do if you asked. But – this was larger than either of us. I would not sacrifice someone so dear to me if I did not know it was what had to be done.”

Malik’s hand tightens in Altaïr’s, a reflexive squeeze. In some odd way, it’s a relief to hear that Altaïr did not make such a grave decision based on Malik’s request alone. More than anything else in these last few weeks, it solidifies Malik’s surety that Altaïr is not the man he once knew. He’s grown and steadied, become a leader in his own right. No one now will be able to command him, to bend him willow-like to their desire.

“Good,” Malik says.

He can’t siphon the rest of it down into a manageable phrase. For once, he feels some empathy with Altaïr’s plight of being caught tongue-tied. It’s strange to have their roles reversed here, but not bad. Ever since his return, Altaïr has been upsetting the order of Malik’s life. He’s almost grown to like it. It’s a challenge, one he hasn’t had in too many years.

Altaïr draws in a breath as if to speak but stops short, hands curling into fists in the blankets. There’s a new tightness to his jaw, and Malik scours his expression for what could be the cause of it. Uneasiness quivers in his chest.

"I – there's something I need to tell you," Altair says. "Something I should have said long ago."

Uneasiness quickens and turns to a kind of alarm. Surprises of late have only been of the sorry sort, and he doesn’t know if he can withstand any more bad news right now.

"All this time, I never told you I was sorry," Altair continues. "I am sorry – for all that I have done. For causing you to lose Kadar, your arm. For not listening to your voice over my own ego. You were right to hate me."

Relief and surprise rush through him, a disorienting combination. Something else sighs through him as well — a gentle hurt, an old resolution. The words that come to his lips have been weeks in the making, and he speaks with unflinching surety.

"I do not accept your apology."

Altair's head dips. There's no surprise in his expression, only acceptance. Oh, Altair, Malik thinks without thinking. So like him, to believe that hurt is the proper response, to believe he deserves the further punishment. Malik unlinks their hands and gently tilts Altair's chin up so they see eye to eye. When he speaks again, he gentles his voice and wills truth into it.

"I do not accept it, because the man who stands before me is not the man who made those mistakes," he says. "You are not the same man who went with us into the Temple."

Altair's eyes flicker over Malik's face, as if he can't quite believe his words.

"You have become a good man, Altair," Malik says. "And you were not the only one to blame for what happened in the Temple. I was so blinded by my own jealousy and ambition — had I not been so ensnared in my own ego, perhaps we could have found a compromise, found some way that did not have to end in tragedy."

He doesn't know when he realized this, can't be sure he ever would have were it not for this moment.

"Malik—" Altair starts, poised to object.

"It is the truth, Altair," Malik interrupts. "I know my mind and I know my heart."

Subsiding, Altair is left looking newly raw. Malik slides his hand down to cradle his jaw instead, and Altair leans into the touch, eyes falling closed. A furrow remains tight in his brow, but he doesn't try to protest again when he opens his eyes. Instead, he lifts his hand to cover Malik's. 

There’s a knock at the door. Both of them turn toward it, though Malik catches a wince across Altaïr’s face as he moves.

“Come in,” Malik calls.

Bayek enters, bowing low. He’s changed out of his armor, though he doesn’t seem to have gotten much more rest than Malik; he still wears the kind of tunic and breeches brought on campaign, and his shoulders sag out of their usual squareness.

“My lord, you said to tell you when the assembly was prepared to meet you,” he says. “The other commanders are gathered as well.”

Nodding once, Malik takes a deep breath. Assuring the assembled court of their security and the capital’s repossession isn’t so daunting as leaving Altaïr’s side. There’s so much they haven’t said, so much they haven’t decided. What if he steps away for this and Altaïr slips away in his absence? They’ve made no promises to each other, sworn no vows of loyalty. Altaïr has more than done his part. If he left now, there would be none who could blame him.

Before he can even start to voice any concern or beg off the assembly for another hour, Altaïr has pulled away and moved to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

“What – what are you doing?” Malik demands, staring.

Altaïr looks up, a frown creasing his forehead. He glances down at his bare feet dangling over the stone floor and then back up to Malik as if this is somehow a trick question.

“I cannot go before them in a blanket,” he points out.

“You aren’t – you—” Malik breaks off, breathing out in frustration.

He sets his hand against Altaïr’s shoulder and presses down. It’s a clear sign of Altaïr’s injuries and exhaustion that he goes back easily with the pressure. He scowls.

“You need to rest,” Malik says. “You are injured.”

Altaïr’s scowl tightens and darkens.

“I am fine.”

Frowning back at him, Malik finally looks to Bayek. The glance is all his general needs to step back outside and give them the room. Malik turns fully to Altaïr once more.

“Altaïr, what is this about?” he asks.

That fear bubbles deep in his chest, that Altaïr will not even be slowed by his injuries but will up and vanish before Malik has thought of the words to convince him to stay.

“I’m not an invalid,” Altaïr insists.

An annoyed retort comes readily to Malik’s tongue, but he holds back for once. There’s something there, an undercurrent in Altaïr’s tone that borders on desperation. Malik pulls back, draws away the fear and fatigue clouding his own mind.

Altaïr has always been praised for his physical skill, his prowess and athleticism. Even now, in these last few weeks, much of what he’s done has been in physical service to Malik. The start of a suspicion buds as Malik takes in Altaïr’s tired eyes and bandaged chest.

“Altaïr, you don’t have to be fine,” he says, as gently as he can. “You deserve to rest. We have all the time you need. Masyaf will still be there when you are properly healed.”

The words hurt as he says them, but he needs to say them. He can’t trap Altaïr here, can’t force him to stay. It wouldn’t be fair to either of him.

“Masy—” Altaïr cuts himself off, gaze dropping down. “Right.”

Malik can’t read his change in demeanor, but he’s at least relieved that the fight seems to have left him for now. He chooses that relief over the ache that echoes through his chest at the confirmation of his fear. He knew this would happen. The only reason to think Altaïr might stay was his own wishful thinking.

“Now, rest,” he says. “I will return after I’ve met with the assembly.”

He rises when Altaïr gives no protest and starts toward the door. Before he can meet the assembly, he needs to find clean clothes – ones that don’t have mixed blood spattered across them and sweat soaked through them. Beyond that, he needs to actually compose himself enough to address them properly; his thoughts are sluggish and tired, circling slowly around fuzzy ideas and phrases.

“You don’t need to check on me,” Altaïr says abruptly. “After the assembly.”

Malik stills with his hand on the door handle. He looks back over his shoulder, but Altaïr has rolled onto his side as if to sleep. He does not lift his eyes to meet Malik’s gaze. Malik swallows.

“Alright,” he says. “Rest.”

He passes through the door with a distant ache in his chest. He’d known this could happen, but he hadn’t expected Altaïr to push him away. He’d thought they’d part ways as something like friends, with mutual respect and amiability. Perhaps Altaïr regrets what they shared over this journey, now. Maybe it was made on impulse or only because of the authority, no matter how nominal, Malik wielded over him.

Catching himself, Malik tries to shake the thoughts off. Whatever else he is, Altaïr isn’t a liar, and the conversations they shared – the night they shared – was not an act. All he can surmise is that Altaïr got his fill from those weeks and no longer has need of Malik. It’s an unwelcome thought, but once he’s had it, Malik can’t stop the idea from spinning through his mind until he can hardly think of anything else.

The assembly passes in a blur. He must say the right words, because the court cheers and calls his name, but he can’t recall any of what passes his lips. After, he takes the time to speak with those advisors and courtiers that approach him, to reassure them now that he’s returned. There’s a brief mention of Abbas, quickly resolved.

A hand falls on his shoulder, and Malik stills. He’s too tired even to respond beyond looking over warily to find Ezio waiting there. Behind him stand Kassandra and Ratonhnhaké:ton. All of them have traded their armor for lighter clothes and their helms for crowns. Together, they look like rulers – a triad of kings and queen.

“You look dead on your feet, Malik,” Ezio remarks.

Kassandra snorts, rolling her eyes. Despite himself, Malik feels his lips quirk up in a tired smile. At least this is the same. They have not pulled the rug out from under him yet.

“How is Altaïr?” Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.

“Resting,” Malik answers, good humor cooling. “He was not so badly injured as first thought, but it will take time for him to recover before he is ready to return to Masyaf.”

The trio share confused looks Malik is too tired to interpret.

“Masyaf?” Ezio asks.

“That is the home of the Assassins, isn’t it?” Malik asks.

His tone comes out a little sharper than he meant it or than Ezio deserves, but Malik has no patience for dwelling on this or for trying to understand what secret conversations the other three have been sharing. Their shared looks already have his hackles rising, irritation at the thought they may have discussed his personal matters behind his back.

“It is,” Kassandra agrees slowly, “but I had thought Altaïr would stay here. With you.”

He doesn’t miss the pointed addition, but he does ignore it. His own heart, traitor that it is, beats a whimpering echo of her words.

“Last Altaïr spoke on the matter, he was to return to Masyaf as soon as he was able,” he says instead.

He doesn’t add that the last time mention of it crossed their lips was lifetimes ago, before they each had the world taken by the ankles and shook to disorientation.

Despite his words, none of the three seem convinced. Ire rises in Malik at their disbelief, but before he can speak it, Ezio steps in once more.

“Why don’t you rest as well?” he suggests. “There will be plenty of time to sort everything out when you have had some sleep.”

He feels frustratingly like a child being gently herded by their parents, but he still possesses enough rationality not to protest. He is exhausted, and he will be able to think more clearly when he has had some rest. After he has confirmed that the trio plans to stay for a few days at least, he cedes defeat and walks the slow way back up to his own chambers.

The stones feel newly harsh against his booted feet after weeks of sand, and his very bones seem to sag with tiredness. It weighs him down, dry and aching. When he collapses into his bed, he barely has time to close his eyes before sleep swallows him down.

He wakes in late evening, to gold-red sunlight falling warm against his cheek. Grimacing, he rolls onto his back and rubs at his gritty eyes. The rest does have him feeling more clear-minded, but weariness is still a heavy weight in his bones. It takes unwonted effort to force himself to swing his legs over the side of the bed and stand.

With rest, his mind has settled and resignation set in. Standing alone in his chambers for the first time in a year, Malik gives himself leave to have a moment to adjust himself to this new order. It’s not so different from before: he still will rule alone in Tajalsef, still seek to serve his people when they are in abundance or deprivation. Now, he just has fewer enemies, some newer friends. Even this grief is an old one, just reawakened and in a newer shape. He’s lived through it before. It will heal again, no matter how imperfectly. It is only a new scar, not his first.

He dresses himself in the layers and robes of court and settles his crown atop his head. The weight of it straightens his spine, lifts his chin. Looking in the mirror, his wavery reflection is of a king. He takes a deep breath and sets down along the hall.

The trio is where he expects them to be, for the most part: reclined in one of the gardens with a light dinner spread between them. A lyre has been procured from somewhere, and Ezio plucks at it with amateur fingers. His voice is no sweet songbird’s, but it’s not unpleasant either. The evident pleasure in his tone smooths some of the catches and polishes the hoarseness.

“Malik,” Kassandra greets, waving a hand from her spot leaning against a chaise.

Ratonhnhaké:ton is nowhere to be seen, even when Malik scans the garden. No flash of white betrays him from amidst the trees and flowers.

“Feeling better?” Ezio asks.

“Much,” Malik affirms as he sits down. “Where is Ratonhnhaké:ton?”

Ezio lifts a hand from the lyre to wave in a vague gesture toward the castle.

“Oh, you know how he is,” he says. “Getting some quiet, I imagine.”

“Getting away from your singing, you mean,” Kassandra replies.

Recoiling, Ezio affects a posture of false offense and gives an affronted gasp. Kassandra grins back, unrepentant. In response, Ezio starts back up, more enthusiastic than before. Malik leans back into his seat. A strange kind of peace has followed his acceptance, and as he sips his wine and listens to Ezio’s warm baritone, he thinks this might be the best thing to come of all this. He hadn’t realized how much he’d isolated himself, how much he’d missed friendships like this.

“A highwayman came riding west, their path aflame with the searing sun,” Ezio sings. “And yea though long he rides, he chases what can’t be won.”

It’s an old song, the lyrics a folktale of wayward love. Sung in Ezio’s warm voice and accompanied by the chirps of the night’s first frogs and crickets, it is sweetly melancholy. Malik is lulled into easy contentment, only half-listening to the actual words. He can’t recall now the last time he sat in easy company in the dying light of a summer evening; it seems eons, ages, ago. The gentle shadows of the fading sun reach toward him with a soft nostalgia for long-gone days he cannot date.

“Come to the – oh! You’re up.”

The interruption jars Malik out of his reverie, and he looks up to follow Ezio’s gaze. Framed in the gate of the garden are Ratonhnhaké:ton and Altaïr. Malik’s heart sinks when Altaïr won’t even lift his gaze from the grass near his bare feet. He’s come to say goodbye so soon?

Altaïr has shrugged off Ratonhnhaké:ton’s support, but his jaw is tight and face pale with the strain of supporting himself. Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn’t reach out for him, but he stays near as if to catch Altaïr should it come to that. His expression is flatly unimpressed, as if he is unsurprised by Altaïr’s behavior but disapproving nonetheless.

“Come, sit,” Kassandra says, scooting over to make room on her own chaise.

There’s a beat where Ratonhnhaké:ton looks to Altaïr, pointed, before walking over to sit by Kassandra. The only seat left is beside Malik, but Altaïr still hesitates before trudging over. Swallowing his hurt and pride, Malik tells himself not to let it bother him. Soon enough, they won’t even be in each other’s company, and they both will be able to move on as they will.

Ezio’s started up his playing again, and Malik leans back, prepared to ignore Altaïr and enjoy the evening anyway.

“Malik, I need to tell you—” Altaïr starts almost immediately, and Malik nobly suppresses the urge to groan aloud.

“Altaïr, it is fine,” he says. “I understand.”

In his periphery, he can see Altaïr tense and scowl. Malik can’t summon up any sort of vindication at the reaction, though; he doesn’t want Altaïr to be upset. He just wanted to have a few moments of peace here, after everything that has happened. Whatever Altaïr’s reasons are for his decisions, they are what they are. There’s no sense in hashing them out painful detail by painful detail here, now, when they could better spend their time not fighting.

He’s never been one to run away from a fight, but right now, he’s willing.

“No you don’t.”

Malik straightens, turning slightly toward Altaïr in surprise. Both his hands have tightened into fists on his lap, and he sits straight and tense. There’s a stubborn set to his jaw that Malik hasn’t seen in a while, and he casts back through the last couple minutes as he tries to find his misstep. He was only giving Altaïr permission, assuring him that Malik had no illusions of claims to him.

“You don’t understand, and you’re not listening,” Altaïr continues.

Despite himself, Malik’s hackles rise. Not listening? He’s heard clearly every hint Altaïr has dropped. Altaïr is the one who has chosen not to answer Malik. He’s about to speak up in his own defense when Altaïr continues.

“You’ve been putting your words in front of mine,” he says. “You are the one who spoke of me leaving. You never asked me whether I wanted to.”

Thrown off, Malik can do little more than gape at Altaïr. Distantly, he’s aware that Ezio’s singing has quieted down, but he can spare no attention for the other three. Altaïr’s gaze is piercing and focused fully on him. There’s still a tightness in his jaw and hands, but now Malik thinks it might not be anger – might be the force of getting these words out and into the air. He’s surprised by the effort, by the courage. A part of him, growing a little larger in the lull, feels shame creeping up his back at that surprise.

“I – you said you would return to Masyaf,” he objects.

“Weeks ago,” Altaïr rejoins. “A lifetime ago. Malik, you are not this dense. Do you truly believe nothing has changed since I was dragged before you?”

Altaïr’s words have brought Malik’s heart into a precarious position, beating impossibly in the back of his throat. It lodges there, making it quite difficult for any words to pass through. He swallows, ineffectually.

“Malik,” Altaïr says, voice gentling, turning rawer and more aching, “I love you. I have loved you for years – since before I knew loss or grief or pride. I have loved you since I last left the shadows of these walls. And I know you are – not indifferent.”

He falters only in the last, as if doubt has caught up to him suddenly and left him once more unsure of his words. In the silence, he scans Malik’s face desperately, seeking some answer. Malik’s jaw works a moment uselessly.

“I am not used to being caught speechless,” he admits, “but it seems you have done the confessing for both of us.”

He pauses, then, to try to sort his words. Altaïr’s eyes flit over his face, wary hope a gentle light in them.

“I love you, Altaïr,” Malik says. “I have loved you these long years, even when it only hurt. And over these weeks, to see you – to know you – now, has been more than I ever thought to hope for.”

There are no words left in either of them, it seems. For a moment, they simply are suspended in this new knowledge, this sudden assurance. All the tension that had strung through them has gone slack, the energy dissipating with overwhelming relief.

“Finally! You two took your sweet time.”

They both jerk towards the others at that, jarred by Kassandra’s exclamation. Malik had forgotten they were there at all, and he can feel heat rising suddenly to his cheeks.

“Did you all hear all of that?” he demands.

“We tried not to listen,” Ratonhnhaké:ton offers.

Mortification runs hot under Malik’s skin, but he can think of no way to salvage his pride at this point: there’s no way to pull back and cover the heart he just bared. He sighs and rubs his hand against his brow. Beside him, Altaïr looks as if he would like to sink down and vanish into the earth itself.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed about love,” Ezio remarks cheerfully. “Besides, it’s good to see new beginnings from such times.”

True as his words are, Malik still can’t help wishing that they’d had the forethought to have this conversation somewhere more secluded. Fortunately, before anyone can drag it on too long, Ezio resumes his playing and sets to singing once more. Partway in, Ratonhnhaké:ton joins in, his voice lower and rather more melodic than Ezio’s. The garden settles once more into something like peace.

Shifting a little closer on the chaise, Malik nudges Altaïr’s arm gently with his own. He’s mindful of the injuries he knows are only hidden by Altaïr’s tunic and not yet healed.

“I still haven’t asked what you want,” he explains when Altaïr looks up to him. “So, Altaïr, what do you want to do?”

There’s a beat where Altaïr’s gaze searches over Malik’s face, and he draws in a deep breath before reaching out and lacing their fingers together.

“I want to be with you,” he says. “Wherever that takes us.”

Curling his fingers into Altaïr’s, Malik can’t help the smile that pulls up his lips. He leans in so that their shoulders press together, warm and solid.

“Well then,” he says, “I guess we are both home.”

Altaïr settles in against him, resting his head against Malik’s shoulder with a soft, contented sigh. Kassandra has joined in the singing now, and as the song wends through the garden trees and around the walls, Malik can feel it thrum through his own chest. Some kind of magic, it seems, still echoing up from the earth and finding its way to them. He closes his eyes and breathes deep.

Home, the night breeze whispers, and in Altaïr’s easy breath, he hears it echoed again.

“You never told me,” Altaïr says, “the story of Aquila. The one Kadar loved.”

A smile curls up Malik’s lips, and he tilts his head to find Altaïr watching him with gentle intent. Resuming his previous position, Malik settles back into Altaïr’s side.

“Many ages past, there lived the greatest warrior the world had ever seen,” he begins. “His name was Aquila and though no enemy could stand before him, his heart was empty for he had no home nor love…”

He speaks low, just quiet enough to stay under the music of the other three, and the words rise to his lips without thought. They feel well-worn crossing his lips, dog-eared with love and memory. It has been years since he last told it, years even before Kadar was taken from him, and yet the story is as familiar as the weight of Altaïr’s hand in his own, as the rhythm of his breath. If Kadar were here, he thinks, he would smile to see them still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C'est tout! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I really hope y'all enjoyed it and really appreciate your kudos/comments along the way <3 As always, I'm always happy to chat on [tumblr](www.curiosity-killed.tumblr.com) ^-^


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